


appellation

by talriconosco



Category: 18th & 19th Century CE RPF, 18th Century CE RPF, American Revolution RPF, Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Scotland, Violence to major characters, War, discussion of slavery, men being stubborn and honorable, minor character death offscreen, the Hamiltons of Grange, this changes everything
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-07
Updated: 2016-10-23
Packaged: 2018-06-06 20:17:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 67,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6768499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/talriconosco/pseuds/talriconosco
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>One.</i> Laird John Hamilton loves his brother, perhaps more than James deserves; in the end, it is an easy thing to arrange ship’s passage for two small boys to Glasgow.</p><p><i>Two.</i> For a bastard nephew striking out on his own, a commission in His Majesty’s Army is a gift from Providence; it would be foolish to throw away this shot.</p><p><i>Three.</i> On a brisk day in late November 1778, dried leaves crunching under his boots, General Washington encounters a young redcoat in the woods.</p><p>  <i>What price would you pay to maintain your honor?</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

 

** Glasgow, July 1768 **

The letter had arrived some four months ago; it had been uncharacteristically personal for James, and, quite contrary to his usual correspondence, it had not contained a single direct reference to his pecuniary situation. That alone had struck John as most remarkable for its honesty. 

(John loves his brother, perhaps more than he ought to and certainly more than their other brothers would prefer, but he is not blind to James’s failings. Chief among these is an utter inability to manage his own funds.)

_My dear John_ , it had begun, _I fear the worst has come to pass. I received news today of the passing of my beloved Rachel, whose memory I hope you will recall with utmost affection for the joy she brought your dear brother for more than a decade’s time. My sons—your nephews—are left most grievously alone on the island of St. Croix, and I in my obligations here and my grief for Rachel, confess that I have not the time nor strength of will to make the journey. I implore you, dear brother, to find it in your heart to send for them at once; they are bright boys, and carry our name well. It is my dearest wish that they should have the opportunity to know our home land and grow up among their cousins, even while I their father as a result of my own failings have become absent…_

John loves his brother, despite his history, and it had been an easy thing to send letters to the harbormaster and probate courts in St. Croix aboard one of his shipments. He’d entrusted Davies, his best captain, to deliver the documents and reclaim the lads himself.

The letter from James is in his hands now, worried over and wrinkled, as he strides along the docks through the hazy stench of fish and sweat. The _Aurelia_ has returned to port today, and it’s meant to be with Davies and the lads in tow.

John’s left his carriage behind at the Hamilton offices, and takes care to step around the sailors unloading case after case of tobacco from the _Aurelia_ ’s stop in Virginia Colony as he approaches the gangway.

Davies is easy to find, his burly stature and shorn head standing high above the rest.

“M’lord!” Davies shouts, tipping his chin; John responds in kind, walking up the ramp and neatly over the rails to the deck. He’s not a seaman, himself, but here—under the beating midday sun, with the soft roll of the wooden planks under his feet—he thinks he could be.

“Captain! I trust you are well?” John shakes Davies’ hand with a familiarity borne out of nearly fourteen years’ work together.

“Aye, m’lord, you’ll be might pleased with the shipment,” Davies answers, and in the flick of his eyes, John can tell there’s something he’s not saying. 

“And the lads?” John asks, straightening; he likes the captain, yes, but he does _not_ like being lied to.

“The court released them to me, m’lord, but soon after we left port, the elder boy fell to a fever. There wasna anything to be done, was the truth of it,” Davies says, quiet and apologetic. 

He continues with a recounting of the sickness as it passed through the ship. John barely hears, caught up in readjusting his perceptions and intentions for James’s sons—son, now, and a tragedy it is, to be sure. A queasiness rises in John’s stomach, thinking of the tossing of the waves and the drenching sweat of a fever, ending in a small linen shroud slipped over the rails, falling to the deepest dark of the ocean.

John’s thoughts are cut off by the abrupt arrival of a scrawny twig of a lad, brown-haired and dirty, who ducks out of the door to the hold with his head down, a small hand shielding his face from the sunlight. He’s barefoot, with breeks that have hardly weathered the two-month journey at sea. John’s wife will be appalled. 

Davies claps a hand on the lad’s shoulder. “Here’s your uncle, then,” he says, and the lad’s head jerks up, revealing dark eyes and a thin face more bones than flesh.

When Davies lets go, the boy sways for a moment, a rootless tree, and John reaches for him instinctively. His fingers catch the ragged edge of the boy's once-white cotton shirt.

“What’s your name, lad?”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My eternal gratitude to [herowndeliverance](http://archiveofourown.org/users/atheilen) for making this so much better than it was.

**The Grange, North Ayrshire, Scotland**

**September 1768**

 

“Alexandre, attention, s'il vous plaît!”

It’s Monsieur Montagne, the tutor, who to Alexander’s chagrin insists on several hours of recitation each day in the attic schoolroom.

Alexander drags his eyes from the window back to Montagne, who is reviewing the Latin future perfect, ruler in hand.

“Pardon, Monsieur,” Alexander says quickly, because only last week Montagne had complained about his performance to Mrs. Hamilton, resulting in Alexander receiving a brief but stern scolding about ingratitude and disrespect.

Montagne nods, eyes narrowed, and resumes.

Alexander _is_ grateful, he thinks, _he is,_ because Uncle John has contracted to keep Montagne on just for Alexander, when his own children are grown and no longer in need of declensions and lessons on Plato. Alexander knows that a tutor is a privilege, one he would not have been granted if he’d stayed behind on the island, a penniless orphan. Uncle John has been more than kind, and clearly expects Alexander to be diligent and respectful.

And it is not that Alexander dislikes Montagne; not exactly. It is just that these lessons are slow, and stifling despite the falling temperatures of autumn on the Scottish coast. Alexander dutifully recites his tenses and translates from Virgil, but he's not satisfied with memorization. He wants to learn; he wants to do. For his part, Montagne seems hell-bent on shaping Alexander into the model of his cousins, who are now happily, if dully, set to their studies or apprenticed in their trades. Alexander thinks, uncharitably, that his cousins have never had an original thought in their lives.

(Jamie would have enjoyed these lessons, even as he would have struggled to learn his Greek.  _Jamie would’ve smacked you for causing a fuss,_ Alexander thinks. But Jamie isn’t here.)

Alexander is thirteen, and beyond his hours with Montagne he is left quite alone. Uncle John passes his weeks at work in Glasgow and Mrs. Hamilton, who clearly regards Alexander as a strange, barely-tolerable burden, occupies herself in the conservatory and with carriage rides to visit the cousins. Her greatest pride, frequently recited to the parishioners who come to call, is that Robert, the youngest of them at sixteen, has already started his course of study at Cambridge.

Alexander is becoming increasingly aware that he, as an afterthought of questionable provenance, has neither the funds nor the reputation to end up at Cambridge. He’s not fool enough to think that Mrs. Hamilton and Uncle John will pay to sponsor him, no matter Uncle John’s kindnesses.

They have been kind, of course. He remembers the first day, when Uncle John had intercepted him on the deck of the _Aurelia_ and looked him over critically but gently before bundling him into a carriage for the half-day’s journey to Stevenston. They’d come over the ridge and Alexander had almost forgotten to breathe when he’d seen the castle for the first time, all gray, sun-bleached stone on the edge of the sea cliffs.

(He and Jamie had talked about it with excitement, when the judge had knocked upon cousin Peter’s door and said _there’s an uncle, in Scotland._ Jamie had remembered Father’s stories about the Grange well enough to retell them, and they’d sat up too late in their bed on that last night, covers pulled over their matching heads, and talked about what it would be like, with servants and stables and an entire parish just for the Hamiltons. Jamie had always preferred the outdoors to books, and had been most excited to properly learn to ride. But Jamie wasn’t here.)

“Dismissed,” Montagne says, finally, when Alexander has finished a passable translation of the day’s passage from the Aeneid.

“Merci, Monsieur,” Alexander stands automatically and gives a formal bow, his knees knocking against the rickety child’s desk, setting up a small cloud of dust that trails lazily up towards the crucifix mounted on the bare wall.

Montagne sniffs in response, but waves him away. Alexander doesn’t think Montagne hates him, exactly, but neither is the man fond of his tendency to question and push. Montagne humors him, at best, but is quick to annoyance and not much pleased by Alexander’s tendency to daydream. Alexander’s saving grace is his fluency in French; they conduct most of their lessons in the language, and even while Montagne frowns at Alexander for his uncultured Creole accent, Alexander thinks Montagne is secretly pleased to not have to live through yet another Hamilton child mangling his language with every word.

Alexander leaves at a fast, barely restrained walk, into the wood-paneled corridor and down the servants’ stairs at the back of the hall, loping down all four flights to the kitchens, which are hewn from stone that still carries the faint scent of seawater. He catches glimpses of the outdoors through the windows as he goes; the fog is rolling in, and he thinks that it will storm today. Uncle John will stay in Glasgow, then, and not return until the next week; the roads are unfavorable in the mud.

Alexander pushes away whatever feeling is rising in his chest as he swings through the kitchen doors. It is most certainly not disappointment.

It’s at least twenty degrees warmer inside, and Alexander shivers into the welcoming heat for a moment on his way to the small nook next to the ovens where he has stored his stool and books.

Cook lets him read, undisturbed; it’s better than the stables, where the older stablehands peer at him, debating what scandal must’ve caused Uncle John to take in a waif all the way from the Caribbean, _that scoundrel James, you remember him, the lazy one_ on their tongues. It’s certainly better than the drafty attic with Montagne, and better than Alexander’s own room (cousin William’s room, which he is simply borrowing, Mrs. Hamilton is quick to remind him) on the third floor, with its rattling windows and fireplace that never seems to catch above a sputter.

And Cook slips him slices of fresh bread, sometimes, and never asks about his parents or Jamie.

Alexander sits and breathes out, leaning against the wall closest to the fire, even though he’s liable to be scolded later for coating his shirt with soot.

He opens the Hume treatise he’d found in the library the night before, and sets to work.

***

“Alexander, will you ride with me this morning?” Uncle John asks, some weeks later, pausing between spoonfuls of porridge.

“Of course, Uncle,” Alexander acquiesces, though in truth he’d much prefer to read, having noticed the bite of cold in the wind outside. Uncle John is smiling, though, and Alexander knows it is best to give the expected answer.

Directly after breakfast, a mundane affair around the long, oaken table that has sat in the castle since Uncle John’s grandfather was laird, Uncle John clasps Alexander’s shoulder and herds him out towards the stable, talking all the while about the most recent crop of yearlings and how far the hands have progressed in breaking them for carriage-work. Alexander nods and asks questions appropriately, filing the knowledge away, but his mind is truly elsewhere.

Two days ago he’d picked up a slim, dark leather-bound book in the library and found it full of stories of the ’45. He’d read it cover-to-cover twice already, poring over the Scots’ attempts at rebellion and the slaughter at Culloden. And yet here, just more than twenty years later, the Hamiltons are staunchly Protestant and Alexander has never heard Uncle John say a single word about the King. Why?

(Alexander had tried to discuss it with Montagne yesterday, but the tutor had responded curtly that Alexander was better off correcting his abysmal essay on Caesar Augustus than getting outlandish ideas about revolution.)

They round out of the stables and head downhill, towards the village and the small, stone parish church that Alexander dutifully attends with Mrs. Hamilton each Sunday morning, sitting ramrod straight in the first pew.

“You are quiet today, Alexander,” Uncle John says, mildly, as they turn at the church, heading north. Alexander realizes that he has been silent for longer than is polite.

“May I ask a question, Uncle?” Alexander ventures.

Uncle John nods, waving at the vicar as they pass, with a sidelong glance at Alexander. “You may.”

“Do you support the King?” Alexander blurts it out, unsure of a way to phrase such a thing delicately. “Only, I found a book about the Rising, and Montagne said it was foolish and deserved to fail. But we are Scottish, aren’t we, and it--was it not a matter of honor, and pride?”

Uncle John brings his gray gelding to a halt and angles himself to face Alexander fully. He’s silent for a beat, and Alexander has to steel himself to stop from flinching. Perhaps he’s done it, now; perhaps he’s offended the usually mild and unflappable Uncle John.

(He had a lot of practice offending people, after Father left; Jamie had had to pull him away from more than one fistfight in Christiansted, yelling _just let it go_ and _why do you never know when to stop!_ )

“ _Monsieur_ Montagne,” Uncle John corrects, sharply, but his tone levels out as he continues. “So you are interested in politics, then, lad. I had wondered what you were doing with all of my books.”

He’s not chiding, and even seems to chuckle a little; but a flush rises on Alexander’s neck, regardless.

“I’m sorry, Uncle,” he says quickly, looking down, his heels itching to dig into the sides of his chestnut mare.

“No, no, lad,” Uncle John waves a hand at him, letting his reins fall loose. “Books are there for the reading, are they not? Do not apologize for your own initiative. Why, your father’s prospects would have been much changed if he had shown half the ethic you do, according to the Monsieur.”

“Yes, sir,” Alexander says, low.

“I do support His Majesty,” Uncle John says, a moment later and with conviction. “I am a citizen of this great empire, and I consider that a privilege, mark my words. What our country, and our family, have gained in the last decades has far outweighed the claims that earlier, misguided Scots may have lain against the crown.”

“But so many were killed,” Alexander objects, glancing up at his uncle.

“Yes. But were those on the battlefield not already traitors to their country? Had they not already lost their honor?” Uncle John returns, raising an eyebrow.

“If they believed in a different country, and a different king, how could they truly be traitors?”

“Ah.” Uncle John pauses. “Tell me this, then. Did you choose your origin? Did you choose the island and circumstances of your birth?”

“No,” Alexander hedges, face hot, wishing that Uncle John hadn’t brought it up. _Circumstances_ , indeed.

“Indeed. And an honorable man seeks to improve his situation while abiding by the laws and morals of the land.. He does not rise up in arms to attack others in an attack on what he perceives to be injustices, however personal,” Uncle John continues. “Besides, even with the Rising, the Treaty of Union completely changed Glasgow. We had nothing before, but I’d wager that we’ll soon be the largest tobacco port in the world.”

 _So it is about money,_ Alexander thinks, critically.

“I see your look,” Uncle John shakes his head reproachfully, as if he’s read Alexander’s mind. “It is not just about the trade, of course. In my father’s time, there were no real Scottish writers, no prospects for young men, no Scots in Parliament. Now, there are many regiments of Scots, and each man receives a fair pay and pension—your uncle Walter fought the French in the Americas, you know. And we’ve had John Stuart—you’ve studied him with Monsieur Montagne?”

“The Prime Minister, yes, sir,” Alexander fills in.

Uncle John nods. “So, you see, His Majesty’s Government has been more than generous, and has brought prosperity here. We should be grateful.”

“But—” Alexander starts, words like _conviction_ and _religious freedom_ poised on the edge of his tongue.

“You were born in the Leewards, were you not? James wrote when your parents were married that they were in St. Christopher, at least,” Uncle John continues, decisively. “You are, just as I am, a full subject of His Majesty, with all of the rights guaranteed therein.”

Uncle John clicks his gelding into movement, and Alexander hastens to keep up, automatically, as they ride out of the village and towards the mill, hidden in the distance by the trees.

He has no response—in fact, his mind is reeling, with questions of the Rising forgotten, because he’s been in Scotland for nigh four long, lonely months and has somehow missed one crucial, defining fact: that Father had lied, in whatever letters he’d sent to Uncle John.

Uncle John thinks that Father and Mother were married.

(Alexander did too, once, until Father left and Mother died and it started to matter.)

Uncle John doesn’t know. He doesn’t know how Alexander and Jamie were shamed on the streets and forbidden from entering the parish schools. He doesn’t know that Mother died alone, without honor, and that Dutch tyrant stole Alexander’s inheritance and books because bastards are _nothing,_ only _embarrassments_.

And here Alexander is, living in Uncle John’s castle, talking lessons from his tutor, riding his mare, supping at his table—and it is built on a lie.

The secret burrows into Alexander’s throat, then, digging painfully under his voice box to huddle with all of the other words that must remain unspoken. The shame of it flushes his face, and he’s grateful that Uncle John is a few yards ahead. Alexander tries to swallow. Is he so dishonorable as to continue to lie to his own uncle?

But what is the alternative? Jamie is _dead,_ Mother is _dead,_ Father made it utterly clear that he was not wanted, and it is Father’s fault for lying to Uncle John in the first place.

Alexander may be young, but he knows that without this--without Uncle John--he is nothing.

(And oh, he hates that; the dependency burns in the back of his mouth. But he has already known the pain of hunger, intimately, so he swallows it down.)

“Come, lad,” Uncle John says, swinging down from his saddle. They’ve reached the mill, Alexander riding without seeing. “We’re to have tea with the miller. His family have been tenants since your grandfather Alexander was here.”

“Yes, sir.” Alexander follows, dismounting and stumbling a little in his haste, and ties his mare to the post with fumbling, numb fingers.

Uncle John is first inside, greeting the miller jovially and asking after the effects of the recent rains on the depth of the creek.

Alexander hesitates for a moment on the threshold, the morning’s sunlight on his back but only shadows in the doorway ahead. In that instant, he decides.

He won’t tell; he cannot. He won’t tell, and he offers a promise to God that he will be honest and honorable in all other things; that he will pray for hours each day and respect Monsieur Montagne and bite his tongue when the stablehands talk, if only he is allowed to keep this secret. He will make Uncle John proud, and honor the King, if he can only have this.

He steps inside.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: discussion of slavery and discussion of the murder of a child.
> 
> my thanks again to the magnificent [herowndeliverance](http://archiveofourown.org/users/atheilen)!!

**Glasgow**

**April 1774**

  


“Good morning,” Uncle John says, striding through the open doorway and breaking Alexander’s concentration enough that he almost topples his inkwell, reaching out to rescue it at the last possible moment.

“Good morning, sir,” Alexander returns, looking up from the desk with a squint and making to stand until Uncle John waves a hand to put him at ease. He’s been at work since morning prayers, near three hours ago if the cramp in his writing hand is anything to go by.

“Any developments, lad?”

“Uncle, the _Lady Athena_ is now a week delayed in her return from Calais,” Alexander relays dutifully, setting the letter he’d been working on for the merchants in Rotterdam aside to uncover the shipping chart that lay spread across the desk underneath. “There were no reported storms in the area; I asked yesterday at the Port Commanders’ meeting. But there’s no word of her, either.”

“You think her lost?” Uncle John asks, a note of gravity in his voice. He sits down across from Alexander, as though a merchant come to treat with the company rather than the owner himself.

Just two years ago, their positions had been quite the reverse. Uncle John was growing older, and one day Cousin William, his wife, and their three bairns had moved back into the castle to manage the estate; Alexander, then seventeen and suddenly adrift in the shuffle, had accepted Uncle John’s offer to apprentice with him in Glasgow. After a year, Uncle John had made him a proper employee.

Alexander both appreciates and despises his job; he knows he is lucky to have stability, and he has a knack for the financials, but it is also repetitive and slow, locking him into the daily drudgery of business without a hope of further learning or advancement. He has thought of saving up his coin for university, but at nineteen and wholly dependent on his uncle’s title, funds, and good will, he knows it is both too late and nigh impossible.

He tries not to resent his lot. He tries to honor the vows he made, back at the Grange.

Most of the time, he succeeds.

“I think,” Alexander frowns, “It is long past time that you released Captain Rygger from your service. It would not be the first occasion on which he imbibed so much as to significantly delay his return.”

Uncle John eyes him for a long moment, face unreadable. Alexander is acutely aware that he had spoken perhaps too frankly, given that Uncle John has contracted with Rygger since ’71 and by all accounts considers Rygger to be a personal friend.  

Alexander meets Uncle John’s eyes, tempering his frustration, and holds back the remainder of his argument on the tip of his tongue; he’s done the calculations, after all, and can demonstrate the profits lost each day that Rygger’s cargo remains missing, down to how many pence they are losing per barrel.

“Very well,” Uncle John says, finally, crossing his legs and leaning back in his seat. “Consult his contract, and draft up a document releasing him as soon as is proper.”

A swell of gratification rises in Alexander’s chest. “Of course, Uncle.”

“You will arrange the payment of duties to the harbormaster, when she does arrive?”

“Of course,” Alexander nods. “There is more than enough coin remaining from the last sugarcane shipment, if I have your leave to deliver it directly.”

“You do,” Uncle John assents, more quickly this time.

They continue in this vein for an hour, reviewing the previous week’s transactions and their effects on the Hamilton holdings. There are no surprises. Alexander remains grateful that the Hamiltons have never invested in the tea trade, given recent events in the Colonies.

“Excellent work,” Uncle John says, as they stand at the end; he reaches out and claps Alexander on the shoulder. He doesn’t let go right away, his eyes searching Alexander’s.

“You look exhausted, lad,” he goes on, softer. “Go on, leave the office. There is no harm in a night off. At your age, I was…well.” Uncle John laughs. “Go visit your cousin Michael, perhaps, or go to a reading.”

Releasing Alexander’s shoulder, he draws a small bag of coin from his pocket and tosses it on the desk.

It is a clear gesture of pity. Alexander’s ease and contentment evaporates, leaving only an empty, bitter taste in his mouth. He bites his tongue, restraining himself from pointing out that he is a man fully-grown, that he sleeps in a chamber not ten feet from this one, and that cousin Michael, Uncle George's son, is a blithering idiot drinking his way through his first year at university and squandering an opportunity that Alexander would give _everything_ for.

“Yes, Uncle. Thank you,” he says finally, picking up the bag and sliding it into his pocket, where it settles against his thigh with an unwelcome weight. His tongue smarts.

Perhaps Alexander will visit Michael, anyway; experience has shown that after a few drinks, Michael can be convinced to lend Alexander books from the university's library, for a price.

“Well, then,” Uncle John smiles. “I’ll leave you to it. Mrs. Hamilton has called me home for the week’s end, but I shall return on Tuesday, if the weather holds.”

 

***

 

Alexander meets Jane Griffiths at a reception following Easter services; when he looks back later, he will consider this the beginning of the end.

Jane is the half-English daughter of Major Edward Griffiths, the commander of the local garrison, himself a son of a minor viscount from Sussex. They live on Virginia Street, only a few houses down from the splendid residence of George Buchanan and a far cry from Alexander’s own cramped room at the docks.

Alexander sees her across the room, her dark, wide eyes smiling as she passionately argues that riding sidesaddle is an antiquated practice that is neither beneficial for the woman nor the horse.

Something warm rises in his stomach, taking the edge off of the tedious chill of Glasgow.

Alexander is instantly bewitched.

He convinces one of Uncle John’s captains to make their introduction, _Alexander Hamilton, of Hamilton Shipping,_ and ten minutes later he has her permission to write.

( _"Where’s your family from?” “My uncle is laird at Stevenston, on the coast.”)_

A month later, he has her permission to call.

Alexander was young when he’d left St. Croix, and no girls at the Grange had looked at him twice. But he’d had an older brother, he still had a handsome face, and he knew how to write.

 

***  


The _Lady Athena_ finally returns, several weeks delayed. Alexander handles Rygger’s dismissal himself. The Captain, at least thirty years Alexander’s senior, takes it particularly poorly; Alexander thinks he would have thrown a punch, if Alexander had not plied him with enough whiskey to make his head spin beforehand.

A few weeks pass without incident; Uncle John drops in occasionally, as is his wont; Alexander handles the day-to-day deals and correspondence, from letters in French to their tobacco resellers in Paris to regular attendance at the weekly meetings the harbormaster holds for men of the port to air their grievances.

Walking back to the office after one of these meetings, thinking of Jane, Alexander brushes past a rabble of dockworkers, gathered near a pub with pints in their hands. A captain Alexander barely recognizes is holding court, boasting above the fray.

“Why, the little bugger stayed hidden until we’d made it halfway home; stole food from my private stores, he did!” The captain laughs, uproariously. “Said he wanted to escape, claimed his master was a cruel one, but there he was pinching my own bread!”

Alexander pauses, leaning into the fringe of the crowd. Something he cannot identify ticks in his chest, sharp.

The men clamor for the rest of the story.

“The bastard wouldn’t give the name of his master, anyway, and we were too far to turn back. So I says to my crew, let’s see if what they say about these Africans and the water is true,” The captain pauses for effect. “Grabbed the boy and tossed him right over the side, we did, and damned if he didn’t scare away all the fish with his screaming—”

Alexander does not hear the rest.

His feet are rooted to the ground, immobile despite the press of drunken men around him.

A stowaway; no, a runaway slave, a _child,_ desperate for freedom, working for weeks to stay hidden in a sweltering ship’s hold, only to be thrown away, terrified ( _a boy, a body, sliding overboard, lost forever to the sea)—_ only to be _murdered,_ for no reason ( _the dark, cold water, closing over his head, never to be seen again)_ —

Alexander retches, moving at last, and vomits bile into the ditch bordering the pub wall. An unfamiliar hand claps his back in sympathy, assuming him drunk. Alexander stays bent, a hand braced against the stones, as the crowd clears away,

He’s not stupid. He knows how the Hamiltons make their money.

He knows whose hands pack the tobacco into the hogsheads he meticulously catalogues upon their arrival in Glasgow. He has always known; just as he knew Rebecca, and Esther, and Flora, who used to sing while she worked in Mother's kitchen when Alexander was small.

He has always known, and he has done nothing more than read about it.

He vomits again, and it is a long time before he can walk back to the office. He is plagued with memories of the docks in Charlestown, of the sheen of sweat and scars on the backs of the men at the markets, and of small, still hands, sinking out of reach.

 

***

 

Alexander’s knees ache in the morning; he has spent much of the night begging God’s forgiveness for his complicity. He is not so naive to think that this will be enough.

Uncle John arrives at ten o’clock; they have an appointment to review the month’s accounting before Alexander transfers the profits to the bank this evening.

Alexander is ready, of course; he’d finished the books the previous afternoon, and all of the coin is accounted for. He’d even listed several new investment propositions for Uncle John’s perusal, based on news coming in from India.

When Uncle John takes his seat and looks at Alexander expectantly, however, he finds himself utterly unable to talk.

“Are you all right, lad?” Uncle John asks, his eyes puzzled, for although several years with Monsieur Montagne taught Alexander to moderate his tone, he is still far from shy.

“Yes,” Alexander starts. “I just—”

The silence hangs between them for a moment; Alexander looks away. Uncle John has made this his life’s work, after all.

Alexander remembers the markets; he remembers the sugarcane fields and the damp, sweltering heat. The memories clash with the man before him, who has never lifted a hand to Alexander or so much as tapped his horse’s flanks with a crop. Uncle John goes to church each week and Alexander knows he still writes monthly letters to Father, forgiving all of his failings without a second thought.

“Go on, Alexander. What troubles you? Has Mr. Frederick’s creditor come by again?”

“No,” Alexander shakes his head. “It…Uncle, the goods you—we—trade, the tobacco and sugar cane, they…” He takes a breath, bracing himself to continue. “They are sown and harvested by slaves, innocent men, women, and children with as equal a capacity for thought as any free man. The profits garnered are immoral, drawn as they are from suffering and bloodshed. We participate in the subjugation of an entire race on the basis of greed and prejudice, and yet we profess to be men of God.”

It is only the beginning of his speech; he’d thought it out, in the gray hours of the morning, words turning in his stomach and his head. Uncle John doesn’t stop him, so Alexander continues, speaking at length, arguing for a shift to the trading of wine, or spices from India, or wool from the Highlands—anything to move away from the industry of torture.

He quotes from Philemon, knowing that Uncle John will recognize it; he quotes from Ezra and from Daniel, and finally slows only when the other man holds up his hand, gently.

“We must divorce our affairs from the evil of this practice at once, Uncle,” Alexander finishes, perhaps more loudly than he had intended.

“Alexander, my boy,” Uncle John begins in a measured tone. “As immoral as the trade is—and I do not dispute that the more barbaric practices are against Christian values, for God created all life in His image—what you ask is impossible. Our fortunes, and all of the fortunes in Glasgow, are tied to tobacco; you know this. To step away is to risk ruination and to condemn not only ourselves but our families to poverty.”

 _(Your family_ , Alexander thinks.)

“We cannot make excuses, Uncle! Every day we continue this work, slaves are dying at our expense; murdered, fallen from sickness, beaten until they cannot move—”

“Alexander.”

“Is it not worth the risk to live with a clean conscience, in accordance with God’s instruction, when the alternative is to prolong the horror of suffering—”

“Alexander!” Uncle John raises his voice; Alexander snaps his jaw shut on reflex.

“I am not,” Uncle John pauses for emphasis, “disagreeing with you. The stories the men have told me of the conditions on the islands are beyond imagining. But we cannot rise up in arms now; our livelihoods depend on patience. I know you read the papers—you must see that opinions are shifting. It cannot be long now before Parliament issues a decree, and we will start anew, as a city and a kingdom, with those in bondage freed. Change will come. We must only wait for it.”

The words settle like ice in Alexander’s veins, heavy and frozen with complacency. How many more bodies will be swallowed by the ocean, while the world waits?

“I will _not_ wait,” Alexander bites out. “I will not continue to make excuses for my own actions while I profit from the destruction of thousands of families, selling tobacco and sugarcane stained with blood—”

“This conversation is over,” Uncle John interrupts, jaw tight. “You forget yourself, lad.”

“Do I?”

There’s a long beat of silence; Alexander hears only his own, harsh breaths and his heartbeat, rushing in his ears.

“If you will not work here, you are free to find your own employment.”

Uncle John stands, eyes hard, and walks out.

 

***

  



	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks to [herowndeliverance](http://archiveofourown.org/users/atheilen), as always!

**Glasgow**

**April 1774**

 

Alexander spends the first hour numbly shelving books and writing a detailed schedule of the next two months’ planned deliveries. He knows it is over. He knows he has to leave, and there’s an uncomfortable itch under the surface of the skin, thrumming out  _ you’ve overstayed your welcome. _

But he is equally sure that it would be disrespectful to abandon the office in disarray. Uncle John is past sixty, after all.

When the office is in order, as much as Alexander can make it, he leaves, brushing past McTavish and the other employees with barely so much as a word. 

He spends the afternoon and evening pacing the now-familiar streets of Glasgow, coat closed against the slight damp in the spring air. At first, his mind races, thinking through a thousand possibilities without landing on a single one. 

Alexander is near-penniless, and knows it. But he cannot return to shipping, not when the foundations of the trade are laid as they are in blood and despair.

He could find a job at one of the banks, he thinks, what with the relationships he’s built there over the last few years. He could beg Uncle John’s forgiveness and return to the Grange to tutor his cousin’s children or study with the vicar until he could lead services, one day. He could take a chance and use his coin to ride south, prowl for a job in Liverpool or Manchester or London. He could sail for France.

As the clocktowers close in on midnight, he returns to the dark and empty building. His feet are leaden with exhaustion, and the weight of decision is heavy on his chest.

The Army is the answer—the only answer.

If he can do this right—and he will, he is sure of that, he is determined—the Army will let him make his own name. He will work for it, he will drill and study and read, and he will create his own reputation, free of Father’s shadow and Uncle John’s kindnesses. He will not be pitied; he will be respected, and he will earn glory, whether through deeds or death.

Alexander’s not a fool; he’s read the papers. He knows the Colonies are unsettled; whispers of rebellion have trickled back across the ocean along with tales of lost cargo and complaints about taxes.

He has no sympathy for the colonists. He might’ve, once, when he was in St. Croix and the British Empire was an abstraction drawn from Father’s stories. But he knows better now. He’s seen the bustling commerce in Glasgow firsthand, and he’s heard what it had been like for merchants trying to eke out an existence before the Treaty of Union. The King has brought prosperity, and it is the citizen’s duty to pay taxes and abide by laws of governance in return for the freedom to trade and profit.

Besides, the Colonies are built on slave labor; how can they demand freedom while they make their fortunes on those in bondage?

With any luck, there will be a war, and soon.

 

***

 

Alexander wakes at dawn.

By the time the church bells start to ring in the distance, he has packed his spare shirts and the few letters he’s received from Jane into a broadcloth rucksack. He tucks his moneybag into his pocket and takes a moment to look around the room he’s called home for the last two years.

He pushes away the thought that he should have more ( _ he should have books, tomes he has pored over and written in and made his own; he should have trinkets he carved from wood as a child; he should have a family Bible _ ) and he leaves.

He leaves the key on his—no, Uncle John’s—desk, dons his hat, and walks east along the Clyde.

As soon as is polite, he turns towards the garrison.

He arrives in the midst of drills; through the wrought iron fence, he sees the soldiers standing in sharp lines on the gray stone of the courtyard, coats glowing crimson in the morning light.

Alexander has been here before on business, when Uncle John has sent whiskey or other gifts or, on one memorable occasion, when a young private by the name of Andrews had become overly intoxicated at the docks and Alexander had walked him home after saving him from tripping over his own feet into the river. 

He’s not been here on a personal matter, however, and faced with the men training in full dress, the difference is unmistakable. He is an outsider; the strangeness of it settles into the base of his spine, and he tries to stand taller.

The soldiers shoulder their rifles with a rustle of movement and begin to march forward.

Alexander himself has never fired a gun; he’d held one, long ago, when Father had carefully unloaded his pistol and shown Jamie how to prepare it, piece by piece. But Alexander had been younger, then, and though he’d been allowed to touch, Father had shaken his head at the idea of letting Alexander take a shot.

There hadn’t been much use for guns at the Grange; there hadn’t been anyone to teach him, either, with Uncle John off in Glasgow and Monsieur Montagne interested only in the theories and justification of war.

_ I will learn,  _ he thinks, refusing to let any hint of inadequacy taint his resolve.

He turns, walking along the fence until the men in the courtyard fall out of sight and he can knock on the garrison’s great oaken door.

A young Lieutenant is on watch, and when Alexander asks for an audience with Major Griffiths, he escorts him down the hall to an office with broad windows and a series of swords mounted on the wall.

“Those are the Major’s,” the Lieutenant says with an admiring tone, tracking Alexander’s gaze. “He fought with the Prussians at the Battle of Zorndorf in ’58, you know, when he was just twenty.”

Griffiths earned his glory as a young man, Alexander realizes, and a deep, thirsty sort of envy sinks into his bones as the Lieutenant leaves him in Griffiths’ office to wait.

Griffiths had always been more than polite to Alexander; he’d welcomed him at two parties at his home, and promised to invite both him and Uncle John for dinner in the coming weeks. Jane had also spoken highly of her father when retelling stories from her childhood. She had noted proudly that he’d allowed his daughters to learn to hunt alongside his sons. He’d been a fair man.

“He thinks you well-spoken,” Jane had said, just last week, smiling with her hand tucked in the crook of Alexander’s arm as they strolled in George Square, just far enough from Jane’s younger sisters to maintain privacy. “As do I.”

“And how does he regard my position at the docks?” Alexander had inquired, still playful. 

Jane had looked at him for a moment, dark eyes searching his. Alexander could not tell what she was looking for.

“If I am to be honest, Mr. Hamilton, he has said on more than one occasion that you smell of fish,” she had teased, finally. They’d rounded the corner of the square into the sunlight, the moment forgotten.

Jane’s willingness to speak frankly about people is one of Alexander’s favorite things about her and this burgeoning, hopeful connection that they have. She is incisive and honest and even cruel, at times, when they speak alone. She holds to social standards in public, of course, but privately she refuses to be corralled by propriety.

Since Jane has said that her father respects him, Alexander believes it true. So Alexander is not nervous; he thinks the Major will welcome his ambitions, if anything. It is a difficult thing that Alexander will ask, yes, but in the pit of his stomach he is sure. Confident. 

This is the right thing to do; in one fell move he will separate himself from the spectre of slavery, bring honor to the King, and, most importantly—he will be his own man. He will make his own name, and the ever-present introductions of  _ Hamilton Shipping, Lord John, you know _ will be a thing of the past.

“Mr. Hamilton,” Major Griffiths says, walking through the door nearly twenty minutes later with a faint look of surprise. Alexander stand to bow, hastily; Griffiths returns it with a nod and strides over to the other side of his desk in silence. He settles into his chair, adjusting his spectacles on the bridge of his nose, and gestures for Alexander to sit.

“Good morning,” Griffiths returns, a touch of something guarded in his tone that hadn’t been there when they’d last spoke, after services on Sunday.

“Sir,” Alexander starts, just as the Major begins with “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Alexander cuts himself off with a stilted laugh, feeling off-kilter. 

“My pardon, sir,” Alexander starts again, after a beat of silence. “Thank you for seeing me without warning. Though I acknowledge that our acquaintance has been brief, and, I fear, not long enough for you to know the true measure of my character, I have come to ask you for—”

“Lad,” Major Griffiths interrupts, forcefully; the word stings a bit, but Alexander forces himself to ignore it as he exhales, falling silent.

“What I have learned of your character has been uniformly positive,” Griffiths continues. “Your uncle has been a pillar of support in this community these past decades, and he holds you quite dear. By all accounts, you are capable and industrious. I was in the audience, last year, when you presented your proposal for the revised schedule of duties to the harbormaster.”

Something sharp is breaking through Griffiths’ words; despite the niceties, something is going wrong. Alexander leans forward and opens his mouth to interrupt and plead his case, but Griffiths continues, raising a hand to quell him into silence.

“I say this to ensure that you know that it is with all respect that I tell you that my Jane is to go off to London in autumn and find an appropriate husband there. A husband who shall be able to support her in the manner to which she has become accustomed.”

“Oh,” Alexander says, faintly.

That wasn’t what he—but something burrows into his chest, and his face flushes hot with humiliation. He has been judged and found wanting, not titled or wealthy or established enough for even a garrison commander’s daughter, even when he himself hadn’t asked for or dreamed of it—

Well, he had; how could he have not? He’d pictured them, perhaps a year from now, or two, when Jane turns twenty, marrying in the church at Stevenston only a few hundred yards from the sea. They would come back to Glasgow and move into an apartment situated halfway between the river and the university, so that Jane could visit her parents and siblings with ease while Alexander was away at work. He’d pictured their first child, a boy, perhaps Edward or John. Their second son would be named Jamie.

He’d pictured her, alone with his handkerchief at night.

But he’d been realistic and respectful and he’d followed the rules with honor. He’d known his place. He hadn’t been fool enough to think it would be soon, and he hadn’t asked.

“Mr. Hamilton?” Griffiths is looking at him, eyes keen and expectant, as though he hadn’t just dismissed Alexander’s worth and reputation with a few too-kind words.

“I wish Miss Griffiths all the best,” Alexander says, forcing politeness into his voice. “I have heard London is beautiful in the fall.”

Griffiths nods, and Alexander rallies to finish what he had started.

“I have come to ask you for your assistance in gaining a commission to His Majesty’s Army.”

Alexander raises his chin and lifts his eyes to meet Griffiths’ own; Griffiths looks properly surprised, and perhaps faintly abashed.

“I would welcome the opportunity to serve my country in whatever mode the Army should deem necessary,” Alexander continues. “Though a commission may be…unorthodox, as I do not share my uncle’s title, it is—it was—my hope that through our acquaintance I may have demonstrated such qualities as are required in an officer.”

_ Despite being an unwanted bastard from the Caribbean,  _ Alexander’s mind fills in; he has trained himself well enough to silence it.

“…Indeed,” Griffiths says, after a short while. It is not an apology, but Alexander knows that no apology will be forthcoming. How could Griffiths regret securing his daughter’s future, after all?

“You are correct that it is unusual, Mr. Hamilton, but I do find myself inclined to assist you in this matter,” Griffiths continues. “I will write to General McCabe on your behalf, and should have an answer within a fortnight. That is,” he levels his gaze, eyes piercing, “If we have an understanding regarding the other matter?”

Perhaps Alexander should feel ashamed. He had liked Jane—no, he had adored her, and he had had his dreams, unrealistic as they were—and yet in this moment, facing her father across his desk, his ambition laid out naked and plain, attainable but for a price—he does not hesitate.

“Of course, sir,” Alexander nods.

There is a handshake, and he leaves.

(Major Griffiths goes immediately to the Hamilton Shipping offices, of course, and finds Laird Hamilton much concerned for his nephew’s health. Laird Hamilton closes his eyes—in relief or regret, it cannot be determined—upon hearing of his nephew’s intentions, but gives his blessing for the Major to secure the commission. They share a bottle of whiskey and agree that it will be better for the lad to remain unaware of their conversation.)

Alexander finds lodging at an inn for two weeks, and restrains himself from visiting the docks. He sends a note to McTavish on the second day, apologizing for his sudden departure and wishing him and the other workers well. He assures McTavish of his own good health and explaining that his resolution to depart was taken in a manner so as not to be revoked.

Two letters, then three, arrive at the inn bearing Uncle John’s shaky hand; Alexander runs his fingers over their creases and stores them in his rucksack unopened.

He does not write to Jane.

Alexander—no, Lieutenant Hamilton, now—is entered into the register of the 70th Regiment of Foot on a warm Thursday in May.

 

***

 

**Pennsylvania Colony**

**September 1777**

 

Brandywine is a disaster. The men wilt in the punishing, unbearable heat; the horses founder, foaming at the mouth.

Alexander’s only comfort, suffocating in his uniform as he is, is that the rebels appear to be in even worse condition. They attack in disarray and collapse almost immediately into retreat; Alexander can see their lines breaking in the distance. 

They are untrained; any fool could see that. Alexander spares a thought to wonder after their strategy. They insist their general--Washington--is a hero, a giant among men, but Alexander can see no heroism in the carnage left behind as the rebels fall away.

He turns and whistles to his men for an organized retreat. Later, he will hardly remember what happens next; an American company surges forward from the tree line, as if possessed-- _ but they can’t have ordered another attack, _ Alexander thinks, screaming orders in a blur,  _ why would they, after the retreat-- _

His men whirl on their heels, in crisp formation, and begin to fire systematically; the Americans are coming too fast, though--”Fix bayonets!”--and then there’s a crush of metal and flesh, a fleeting glimpse of a wide-eyed rebel, a fiery pain in Alexander’s thigh, and darkness.

He wakes in a sweat, pain searing up from his leg—his  _ leg— _ and for a moment he panics, horror thick in his mouth, until his eyes adjust and he realizes through the agony that he is no longer flat on his back in a bloody, ruined field. He can still feel his knee. He can still move his foot.

“Be still, Captain,” A voice says through the haze. “You are in the medical tent; you’ve had an infection, it—”

The voice fades, and Alexander loses the thread.

 

***

 

**October 1777**

 

Alexander recovers just in time for Germantown. The ragged scar where the bayonet had entered is still hot-red and scabbing, but he can walk. He can ride.

He has been reassigned to a company of the 40th, under Colonel Musgrave; his own unit had marched away while he was still lost to delirium.

A new unit is no easy thing; the men do not know him, or respect him, and it is made worse by his lingering limp. He can see it in their faces when he gives an order; they doubt him, still.

Of course, that just makes Alexander work harder; he makes meticulous notes of the scouting reports, sees to their equipment and provisions himself, and rides in continuous loops around the men as they march, introducing himself, sparing a word for any whose spirits seem to flag, and trying his best to ensure that this new company will not forget his voice in the heat of battle.

On the fourth, they are positioned with the rest of Musgrave’s troops near an intersection; near 120 men in all. General Howe and his 9,000 hold another line, less than a mile behind them.  Just after dawn, Alexander realizes their mistake. Overnight, the tides have turned; the Americans have rounded them, and they are cut off, isolated. General Howe and the Hessians are desperately, dismally out of reach.

Alexander orders the men in his company to hold their ground and rides for the Colonel.

He pulls his horse up short, tying her loosely to a barren tree, and walks forward. He is barely noticed in the circle of officers around Musgrave. He’s the least known of the lot of them, after all; a Scottish outsider, unknown, a poor substitute for Captain James, who had also fallen at Brandywine but who had not been able to get up again.

“We must retreat,” Musgrave is saying. “Captain Wilkins, make a loop to evaluate their positions; determine a route to minimize our losses. We will march in an hour, no longer, gentlemen. General Howe is awaiting our support.”

Alexander takes a single glance at the stone house, behind them; at the small creeks to the left and right; to Chestnut Hill, two miles’ distant.

He evaluates; he risks. He does not hesitate.

“Colonel,” Alexander calls; the men around him part, startled.

“Captain?” Musgrave frowns, clearly unable to place Alexander despite their hurried introduction in his tent four nights prior.

“Captain Hamilton, sir,” Alexander says, quick. “What if we don’t retreat? If we hold our ground here, we are directly in the line of their forward advance. We can be a distraction—more than that, we can siphon off their assault, drain their ammunition, and thus allow the General’s line time to prepare. We are perfectly positioned, sir.”

A murmur passes around them; the other captains are shaking their heads. 

“We’d be slaughtered, Captain,” Musgrave answers harshly, his displeasure at having his orders challenged evident on his face.

“The walls will hold, sir; if we but go inside,” Alexander gestures. “A scout from my company observed the rebels this morning; those advancing upon us have only three-pound cannons, and less than half a dozen. They will think that we are easily defeated, but their artillery will cause more noise than damage.”

“My scout observed the same yesterday, sir,” A different captain chimes in, fidgeting slightly. “He saw only four cannons in the brigade, and none large.”

For a moment, they teeter on the brink; all eyes fall on Musgrave, expectant, and his own fall on Alexander, calculating.

They can hear the Americans’ drumbeats in the distance.

“We will be grievously outnumbered,” Musgrave says, slow.

And then Captain Wilkins returns, sweat on his brow, the sides of his horse heaving. “Sir,” he gasps. “We are surrounded; I can see no route easier than another, for their units are arranged in double formation.”

Sweat prickles on Alexander’s back, under his coat.

“Then we will pull inside, and we will stand.” Musgrave orders, and the Captains nod and break, scattering. “Hamilton, with me!”

The rest of the day is a nightmare; first, round after round of cannon fire crashing into stone, rattling Alexander’s eardrums until he is sure there must be blood dripping down his neck.

Then the Americans come, running at the house with guns drawn, close enough that Alexander can see the whites of their eyes, frantic, as his and Musgrave’s men dispatch them with bullets and bayonets.

The second wave of men burst forth, yelling, and there is nowhere for them to run except over the bodies of their fallen comrades, boots pressing their blue coats deeper into the blood-dark mud.

Alexander swallows bile and refuses to flinch.

Musgrave keeps Alexander at his side for hours, as the plan plays out. Alexander knows this cannot fail. He cannot fail. The threat is implicit in the tightness of the Colonel’s jaw— _ we’d be slaughtered, Captain— _ but then, finally, the American charges stop.  

Silence falls; the men lower their rifles, shoulders aching, and brush the white dust of shattered plaster off their coats.

As the sun sets, Musgrave gives him a tight nod.

They’ve won.

 

***

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks to [herowndeliverance](http://archiveofourown.org/users/atheilen)!

**November 1778**

**Colony of New Jersey**

 

They are four hours into what promises to be a daylong ride, their small company moving at a nimble pace on a dirt lane in the midst of the New Jersey woods. Blueskin is steady beneath him and the weather is mild enough that it could almost be pleasant,  leisurely—but George wants nothing more than to dismount and walk away. 

It is not just that his mouth aches from the jolts of travel, spikes of pain reverberating from his jaw to the base of his skull. It is not just that Lafayette rides in the opposite direction, bound for Boston and France, leaving Burr to ride at George’s side in his stead.

No; it is something more base and unyielding that curls its chains around George’s chest and presses inescapably against his lungs. The very proposition of continuing to ride—to Morristown, to winter camp, to months of rations and snow—suffocates him with fear. The last winter’s failures are still sharp in George’s mind, refusing to allow themselves to fade with the passage of time. They cannot survive another Valley Forge, and yet the Congress refuses to answer Burr’s politely-penned requests for aid.

He says nothing; he cannot. Not to Laurens or Tilghman, who have put George on a pedestal so high that George sometimes wakes from dreams with the sensation of falling. Not to Burr, who watches him and silently renders judgment, without ever passing George a verdict on his apparent multitude of failings. 

But he is afraid, in the back of his mind, behind the space allotted to tactical maneuvers and strategic correspondence. And in this moment, he wants nothing more than to step away—briefly, for just five minutes, for ten—to think, to pray, to climb down from the column the people have forced him to balance upon. It will be only a fleeting respite; he will rise again. He will ride to Morristown and they will make camp. A battle will come and he will lead it. George has no doubts about this, but he can feel his resolve tested by desperation.

Finally, upon reaching a fork in the road, the company pauses in mutual agreement, each finding a spot in the sun and beginning to dig their stale rations out of their saddlebags. 

George dismounts, grateful beyond words for the excuse. He ties his sword belt to the pommel of his saddle and hands Blueskin’s reins to Burr, who has swung down from his own mount with the infuriating grace of a man half George's age.

“Your Excellency,” Burr starts, though his hand does not waver. It is possible that he looks concerned, George thinks, which is to say Burr wears the same, damned placid expression that defines him whether he is angry, pleased, or sad.

“Enjoy your repast, Colonel,” George says, straining to be polite even as he itches for distance. “I shall return shortly.”

He does not wait to see Burr’s response; nor does he permit his honor guard to follow him. It was a hard-won battle to convince them that he was capable of conducting acts of a bodily nature in privacy, and he knows that his continued insistence upon doing so makes them twitch with nerves.

He did win the battle, though, and now all he must do is send a stern glance and “at ease!” to the guards to remind them that they should remain behind, despite whatever threats Lafayette may have whispered in their ears prior to his departure.

He turns east and paces up the ridge that runs alongside the road; it is not far enough, he decides, the weight of winter on his mind. He relieves himself against the base of an ash tree, quickly, and walks further, in selfish hopes of achieving a moment’s peace. He goes no more than a half-mile, until all he hears are his boots crackling over the brittle brown carpet of leaves and the quiet rustling of an unseen creek.

“Lord, help me,” he whispers, then, letting himself relax and take ease in the stillness.  He exhales, deep, and rests his hand upon the trunk of a towering birch, silver and barren in the early winter sunlight. He turns his head to the sky, letting himself feel the breeze, and closes his eyes to whisper the rest of his prayer.

Treacherous questions have begun to steal into his thoughts, on his darkest nights; questions of faith, of abandonment, and of righteousness in the face of a blood-strewn battlefield absent of the divine. He forces himself to ignore these; he forces himself to set his temper aside and beg, genuinely, to his Maker. He refuses to have a crisis of faith.

It is only a moment, wind blowing gently through the empty trees, and George is less than a half-mile from the road to Morristown. It is not far; there should be none of the enemy around; he should be safe. 

 

It is only a moment.

 

But as George finishes, bracing himself to assume his facade and rejoin his party, a man clears his throat.

George’s eyes fly open, and there’s a young redcoat not five feet away, gun drawn. 

George’s heart stops, but his mind is racing, calculating probabilities faster than his hands can move.

He has no sword—no. He has no gun. The redcoat is small and thin, and George clocks the dark shadows under his eyes—tired, then, tired enough that George could overpower him physically, if not for the pistol—

“Freeze,” the redcoat says, an edge of panic and Scotland to his voice. “You are under arrest for treason against the crown.”

George stills, moving his hands up slowly above his head. 

It won’t be long, he tells himself, until Burr comes riding over the ridge with pursed lips, his pistol at the ready just in case. It won’t be long until the honor guards’ fear of Lafayette’s displeasure stirs them into a frantic search.

George will simply wait, and live, and when the redcoat lets his guard down, George or one of the others will kill him. A shame, that—the lad is no older than Burr, really, and he’s already got the pip of a lieutenant colonel on his jacket. But he's drawn his weapon; it would be self-defense, after all. It would be necessary.

“Freeze,” the redcoat repeats. Strands of his long hair have come loose in the breeze, and he reflexively takes one hand off the gun to tuck them behind his ear.  _ So he’s not had much experience with this, then. _ He’s green; though he may have seen battle, he’s nowhere near ready to shoot an unarmed man, not like this. George relaxes a fraction, and his shoulders shift ever so slightly—

All color drains from the redcoat’s face in a single instant, and George’s first thought is to look for the end of the bayonet that must have run him through, so thoroughly does he pale. But no, George realizes, stomach sinking. 

The lad’s still alive. Worse, he’s caught sight of George’s insignia for the first time, and he knows what it means. His eyes glance wildly from George’s face to his shoulders, back and forth, and the barrel of his pistol vibrates with the force of his shock.

“General,” the redcoat says, low and matter-of-fact, and George can tell that he’s forcing himself to remain calm. “Identify yourself.”

The lies form on the tip of George’s tongue— _ no, you must be mistaken, I am a captain, don’t you know we changed the filthy royalist uniforms,  _ or  _ Charles Lee, didn’t you hear, I was court-martialed in the summer, I am nothing now, just traveling home, I swear I will not take up arms against his Majesty.  _

He swallows them down almost before he realizes that he’s made a decision. There is no honor in lying, after all, and George can tell this will go one of two ways. Either the redcoat will soon die, cut down by Burr or strangled by George’s own hands, or George is well and truly captured. If the latter, he must hope that the redcoat sees war as a gentleman’s game and will not fell George here, alone in the woods, without a trial or a chance to escape.

And is it not a sign, after all, that he had begged for the Lord’s assistance not moments before this redcoat materialized, as though an apparition from the forest itself?

“George Washington,” he says, and waits.

  
  



	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which, offscreen, Aaron Burr is having the worst day of his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks & kudos to [herowndeliverance](http://archiveofourown.org/users/atheilen) for keeping me on track! psalm quoted is #25.

For a split second, the redcoat is betrayed by his own unguarded shock; his face goes white, whiter even than before, and his body trembles, uprooted and threatening to fall.

But just as quickly, an ironclad mask settles over his face; it’s a familiar one, one George himself wore frequently on his first command, all those years ago. The lad stands tall and firm once more, as though through sheer force of will.

 _Determination,_ George thinks, an acidic tang seeping into the corners of his mouth, his lingering fear gone sharp and metallic. _He’s desperate._ At that age, George himself had been desperate to redeem his failings in Ohio and win back his pride. The redcoat before him is after something else, he thinks. Glory, perhaps. Fame.

That makes the lad dangerous. He’s young and nervous, yes, but from the tick of his jaw in the long moment before he replies, George can tell that he will do whatever it takes.

Perhaps George had miscalculated.

He wills himself to remain still and trust in his God and his men. _This is meant to happen,_ he thinks, _I put my trust in thee, bring thou me out of my distresses, pluck my feet out of the net._ George centers himself; either he will die or he will not. In either case, Burr will be furious at him, perhaps even angry enough to frown. Lafayette will sail to France before the news reaches Boston. Congress will have their excuse to promote Gates. The war will rage on, with or without George.

The moment passes.

“General Washington,” the redcoat says, raising his chin. “You are under arrest, sir.”

He uses George’s title, despite the situation; his diction, now that George listens, is too precise to have been learned without the drills of a tutor. _A lordling,_ George thinks, and it’s a sudden, welcome rush of relief. Psalms and fear forgotten, George begins to plan.

This changes things. The lad may be desperate and burning for the chance at glory that George had so foolishly offered up to him—but the lad was raised as a gentleman. George can work with this; George can engage.

“Are you sure you want to do this, son?” He asks instead, staring the redcoat straight in his wide, dark eyes. “Do you know who I am?”

“I’m not stupid,” the lad bites back, raising his chin and glaring at George. It’s a raw and honest response, and George can see the lad regrets it as soon as it leaves his mouth, probably wishing he’d gone with _of course, General Washington,_ or something equally dignified.

“I didn’t say you were,” George says, projecting calm. “It is not too late to stop. You may return from whence you came, and no one would know.”

The redcoat chokes out a single, bitter laugh before he straightens, brushing George’s words aside.

“You are captured, sir. Drop your weapons,” he says.

“Do you think I would be standing here if I had weapons, son?”

The redcoat flushes a bit, narrowing his eyes. “Take off your coat.”

“It will hardly hinder the path of your bullet, if that is what you are worried about, Lieutenant Colonel…” George trails off, staring directly at the redcoat’s face and hoping for his composure to waver.

“Hamilton,” the redcoat says, clipped. He doesn’t blink and doesn’t wait for George to acknowledge him before continuing. It is an altogether unfamiliar feeling, really, for none of George’s own men would ignore him thus.

“Take off your coat, sir,” Hamilton repeats, voice harder. “Now.”

“As you wish, Colonel Hamilton,” George responds; he can’t imagine what purpose it will serve. Assuming he is to be taken alive and leave his greatcoat behind, he will suffer greatly when the temperatures fall overnight. Perhaps that is Hamilton’s aim, though George rather thinks the lad looks too exhausted to enjoy cruelty for cruelty’s sake.

He slides his coat off his shoulders, and follows it with his sash and hat at subsequent commands from Hamilton. He turns to each side, slowly, so that Hamilton might see that no blades hide tucked into the hollows of his hips.

“Walk, General,” Hamilton commands, gesturing further to the east, where the land dips into a valley.

“If you are to shoot me, I would just as soon do it here, now, where my men have a chance to recover my body,” George returns, still. “’Twill be a small comfort to my wife if my grave does not lie empty.”

“ _Walk,_ ” Hamilton intones with a glare, refusing to rise to George’s bait or flinch at the unspoken threat ( _my men are near, they are coming, dammit, Burr, hurry, what are you waiting for)._ “Do not try to run, or I _will_ shoot.”

George believes him, at that. If George turned tail and fled, he’d feel the piercing fire of a bullet in his spine. But such an act would ruin them both—the lad’s reputation would never recover if anyone found out that he’d shot an unarmed man in the back, General Washington or no. George's own reputation would not survive it, if their situation were reversed. Even an ocean away from Europe, where men have played at war since the beginning of time, the rules of conduct are so ingrained in society as to be immutable. If Hamilton shot, removing George from the battlefield—changing the game—well, the common soldiers would worship him, George has no illusions about that. But in the circles in which Hamilton likely traveled, with the sons of landed earls and the wealthy young men biding their time to enter parliament, he’d be seen as no better than a criminal. A beast, devoid of honor.

For all that, something in Hamilton’s face tells George that if he were to run, Hamilton would shoot without hesitation, the consequences be damned.

George has been careful to be calm, quiet, and unthreatening since the moment he’d looked up and seen Hamilton there, between the trees. George hasn’t issued a challenge, but Hamilton has accepted one anyway.

So George casts one final look around the small clearing, empty but for Hamilton’s crimson form and himself, dressed down to basic white— _my men should be here by now, the guards, where are the guards—_ and walks.

The first few steps are the hardest; he knows Hamilton must be following, knows that the gun must still be on him, knows that every step takes him further from the road to winter camp and his army and winning the war.

“Where are you taking me?” George asks, in lieu of looking back to gauge Hamilton’s expression. He walks down the hill at a steady pace despite the protest in his knees.

“You will be taken to General Clinton to face judgment for your crimes.” Hamilton pauses. “His Majesty will likely decide your fate. You can hardly have thought your treachery would go unpunished.”

George restrains himself from asking what, precisely, Hamilton thinks George’s crimes are; it is clear enough, through his speech and seeming devotion to the King. In another situation, George might have challenged the lad’s views on whether an officer could be held personally accountable for his country’s actions simply for doing his duty.

“I had rather thought my patriotism might be rewarded, by God’s grace,” he says instead, dryly.

“Is that what you call it, sir? Patriotism?” Hamilton laughs again, a broken and mocking sound.

George chooses not to respond, instead continuing to walk down the slope in silence. After a few minutes, they reach the stream that he’d heard earlier, rushing between the rocks at the base of the valley. He pulls up short at the bank, looking back at Hamilton for the first time since they’d left the clearing.

There are beads of sweat on Hamilton’s forehead; whether from exertion or nerves, George cannot tell. Still, Hamilton’s jaw is locked and the arm holding his gun does not waver. His finger is on the barrel, as it should be, a safe distance from the hair trigger; George takes a moment to be grateful for that.

“Into the water, sir,” Hamilton orders. “Turn south.”

It’s a smart move; the water will erase their tracks, even from a hound. The stream curves around the base of the hills, such that in a matter of minutes they will be out of sight.

“Very well,” George says mildly. The water is frigid, and his boots, for all their polish, are nowhere near as sturdy as they once were. It seeps through immediately; the icy shock of it reminds George of the absurdity of the situation in which he has, entirely through his own folly, found himself. It would have been unthinkable, yesterday. In these three years of war George has never been in danger, not once; his guards and aides have seen to that. And yet here he is, wading toward British gallows because of a single, young redcoat. A boy who’d suddenly been gifted a shot at turning the tides of the war.

George wonders if they will put him on a ship to be hung in London. Probably, he decides. The King seems the type to welcome a spectacle.

He continues to walk, water rising to his knees. Hamilton steps in behind him, a muted hiss the only sign of his discomfort.

They make their way downstream in silence, quickly rounding a bend and then another, until ten minutes have passed. George has now been absent from his party for nearly a half hour; surely they are searching. He can almost picture it: Laurens and the honor guards panicking, Tilghman and Burr insisting upon logic and reason and splitting the party up into groups to give chase.

But George’s ears are pricked westward and he hears only silence.

The creek continues; George’s breeches are soaked to mid-thigh and a chill has set in on his back and chest without the added layer of his coat.

“Stop, General,” Hamilton says, after a few more minutes of trudging. “My men are ahead, on the east bank.”

“All right, son,” George says, stopping as requested and turning to face Hamilton with an eyebrow raised.

“I am not your son!” Hamilton hisses, his composure momentarily broken. _A weakness,_ George thinks; _an odd one, to be sure, for a young man of noble birth._ George raises his palms, ceding the point.

“My men are ahead,” Hamilton continues, voice hardened but calmer. “It would…not be wise to disclose your identity or affiliation, while we journey to General Clinton’s camp.”

“You mean to hide me?”

“I mean to see you brought to justice, sir,” Hamilton says, raising his chin. “Not all in my camp would say the same. Many have lost friends, brothers, or sons in this war; they would not look kindly upon you.”

And _oh,_ George realizes, this has been the lad’s plan from the start. He’d left George unmolested and without his coat, hat, or sash—all distinguishing features stripped away. The lad had stood across from George in the clearing, looking shocked, and yet in those first few desperate moments he'd had the presence of mind to reason well ahead and improvise a charade. And it has worked. After a quarter-hour in the water, George appears damp, muddied, and hardly worthy of notice. 

“What do you suggest?” George asks.

“A version of the truth. You are a rebel captive, perhaps a Captain,” Hamilton answers, looking George up and down. “You wandered off from your unit, and I encountered you in the woods. We will take you to the prison ships in New York. You’ll need a different name.”

“And why should I comply with this idea of yours?”

“If you’d rather die today, I have several privates and a particularly vicious corporal who would be more than happy to assist,” Hamilton grinds out. “I had taken you for a man of honor, however, one who would rather meet his end after a trial and with the dignity befitting his station.”

The boy is right, and knows it; more than that, he knows that George has already decided. He knows that George’s words were a test more than a question. They’ve taken the measure of each other, as brief and unlikely as their acquaintance has been.

“Very well,” George says, nodding. “Captain John Frederick.”

Hamilton nods, once, and gestures with his gun for George to continue.

It’s a few hundred more steps through the water, his feet having long-since gone numb. Though the small, nameless creek is narrow enough that a man could cross it in two bounds, George can’t help but think of the Delaware, when everything had hinged on one decision and the fickle current of the icy water.

(Quite deliberately, George is not thinking about what will happen if and when they reach New York. He is not thinking about standing in front of Clinton, face to face for once instead of miles apart on a battlefield. He is not thinking about the itch of rough-hewn rope around his neck. He is not thinking about Martha.)

Then George rounds a turn and Hamilton’s group comes abruptly into view. It’s no more than a dozen men, all with mounts, and George spares a moment to wonder what in the world their mission is, here in the New Jersey woods, far from the commonly accepted British territory.

He does not have time to question it further, however, for as soon as the men see him, trailed by an armed Hamilton as he is, a flurry of action descends upon the group. Their red coats go flying as they lunge for their rifles and bayonets.

“At ease!” Hamilton calls; his voice is changed, somehow. Commanding. “Lieutenant?”

“Sir,” a tall redcoat raps out, approaching them warily.

“I have found us a guest in the woods. Fetch some rope,” Hamilton orders.

In a matter of minutes, George’s hands are bound behind his back—Hamilton’s own doing, having handed his weapon off to the lieutenant. Hamilton uses a sailor’s knot, one that George himself learned on the way to Barbados, all those years ago. It cannot be slipped.

Then a burly corporal with hate-filled eyes— _yes,_ George thinks, _vicious_ —half-pushes George up into the saddle of a brown gelding. Instead of reins, they’ve tied the bridle to Hamilton’s horse on the right and the corporal’s on the left.

George adjusts his feet in the stirrups, his thighs already aching from the thought of maintaining his seat for hours without the use of his arms. If they are to gallop, he may well topple to the ground.

Before mounting his own gelding, however, Hamilton steps in front of George’s mount with a critical eye.

“No trouble, _Captain_ ,” he warns.

George nods in acquiescence, minutely.

“One more rope,” Hamilton calls, then, and when it’s tossed to him he catches it neatly, almost without looking. Perhaps the lad has had time at sea, George thinks, holding politely still when Hamilton loops the rope around his midsection and ties it tightly to the pommel. George is still uncomfortable, but he will not fall, now.

“My thanks, Colonel,” George says under his breath; it is Hamilton’s turn to nod, before he turns away, already in motion.

“We ride!” Hamilton yells. “Make haste, men. The rebels will be in pursuit!”

The men kick their spurs and take off towards New York at a gallop.

 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks to [herowndeliverance](http://archiveofourown.org/users/atheilen)!

They ride for two hours; for three. Hamilton unties George once, when the men stop to piss, and allows George to relieve himself; Hamilton turns aside but the corporal, Kettering, watches. They allow George two swigs from a canteen before they continue.

George doesn’t talk to Hamilton, constrained as they are by the presence of the other men and their ongoing farce. Hamilton spends most of the ride staring straight ahead, jaw set, and says not a single word to George.

So, for hours, George bites his tongue and lifts his head high. He suffers through a constant cold, damp breeze that blows straight through his thin cotton shirt, an unforgiving reminder of the season. He forces his body to comply with the hurried pace that Hamilton sets; he posts as best as he can with his hands bound, while they trot, and when they come to open fields and speed up he leans into the canter. To his surprise, the gelding they’ve set him upon is well-trained, responding naturally to the slightest pressure from George’s thighs even without the benefit of reins.

They ride past the sunset, early as it is this far into November, and keep riding until Hamilton finally raises a hand to call for a halt. He looks unhappy with the decision, even as night is falling and they will soon be unable to see the terrain beneath the horses’ hooves.

They started about sixty miles from New York, George thinks; they’ve kept to a trot at a minimum, and must have covered at least fifteen so far. The hills and the dusk have slowed them down, and the horses have tired. Hamilton’s mount, in particular, looks most displeased, likely because his master had held the reins with white knuckles for the entire journey.

George realizes, stomach sinking, that he has one more day at best before they reach Manhattan. If Clinton’s camp is to the west of the island, George has even less.

And when they reach the camp—

“ _Captain_ ,” Hamilton says, jerking George out of his reverie; he’s unwound the rope leashing George to the saddle, and gestures for George to dismount.

He does, aching all over, acutely reminded that he is nearly forty-seven. His wrists have chafed despite his best efforts to hold still, and his thighs are numb. _You are an old fool, this redcoat was not an apparition, you are going to hang, sputtering for breath, soiling yourself on Tower Green…_ George’s traitorous thoughts fade out as Hamilton leans close, voice low.

“We make camp. Follow me; I suggest for your own sake that you refrain from conversation with my men.”

“Of course, sir,” George returns with a nod, equally quiet. He can’t run, anyway; he would get nowhere, and Hamilton would shoot him in the back. A coward’s fate. _Better to hang._

Hamilton leads their horses a few feet away from the others and ties their reins to an oak sapling. He reaches easily under George’s mount, clicking at the horse in familiarity as he unbuckles the girth, lifts the saddle with effort, and sets it on the ground.

Hamilton is small; standing close as they are, George takes the time to realize it. He’s perhaps five and a half feet; a full head shorter than George, though one would not know it from his posture, which remains ramrod straight even as he turns to untack his own mount.

There’s a fine layer of sweat over the brown gelding that had carried George, and a circle brush visible at the top of Hamilton’s saddlebag.

“May I?” George asks; when the lad turns to look, he gives the brush a meaningful nod and turns to the side for a moment, offering up his bound hands.

Hamilton surveys their surroundings, lowering his voice. “You wish to care for the horse that brings you closer to your death, General?”

His voice is twisted and unbelieving. Something unidentifiable lurks under the surface.

“It is hardly his fault, Colonel.”

George holds Hamilton’s gaze, and if not for that he would have missed the single, naked moment of doubt that creeps across the lad’s eyes.

“Fine,” Hamilton says brusquely, and he’s none too gentle when he unties George’s wrists, allowing George only a moment to shake his shoulders out before retying them tightly at his front. So encased, George is barely able to hold the brush; he manages, however, and sets to clearing the crust of sweat from his horse’s coat. The gelding flicks an eye back at George, ear bent in suspicion.

“Shhh, boy, that’s it,” George murmurs in response, working his way lower; the gelding huffs in apparent resignation, shifting to angle his belly more in George’s direction.

“His name is Gulliver,” Hamilton says, after a moment, his back turned to George.

George pauses, thinking.

“He’s yours?”

That Hamilton would have sacrificed his own mount for George’s ride, knowing that George could have harmed the horse deliberately or made an escape and ridden off with him, is an unfamiliar surprise.

The lad’s shoulders stiffen; he continues to brush the gray horse in front of him and does not turn to face George when he responds. That is enough of an answer, itself. “He is steady under…unfamiliar circumstances.”

“Ah. Indeed, la—Colonel,” George catches himself. “He rode well.”

The horse in question whickers in indignation at George’s laziness, and he starts to brush again, automatically.

George glances about; the other men are far enough away to chance conversation, now; at any rate, talking will serve to distract George from the refrain he’s determined to quash in his mind. _You starved them in winter and abandoned them in the fall, you failed and now you will hang—_

“You do not strike me as a reader of Swift,” George says, pushing his thoughts away and thinking back to the copy of the text in the library at Mount Vernon, all those miles away. “The ambition of princes, the corruption of ministers, the evil administration…the causes of war would cast guilt upon your King.”

“ _Our_ King,” the lad corrects, finally turning to level a fierce glare upon George. He keeps his voice low, but barely. “The book is satire and irrelevant, unlike the covenant into which we citizens were born. The King’s grace has allowed you to prosper, and you have now caused yourself only suffering; the benefits of government and empire far outweigh the petty complaints of plantation owners and the merchants of Boston. You have destroyed your economic prospects and driven what few remain of your common folk to ruin. You have dragged this bloodshed on for years and you march only towards your defeat.”

A flush has risen in Hamilton’s sallow cheeks; visible even in the darkness.  His words are pointed with passion, as though he could argue for hours. They do not ring true, of course; George’s belief in the need for revolution is unwavering, even here and now in a redcoat camp. But Hamilton must believe the opposite; must think George a monster for leading his soldiers to ruin for an unworthy cause.

George knows he is not a monster. He’d simply learned the necessities of command the hard way, in his youth. He is a leader, the same as every other general on the continent. When George hangs, Gates will step up to lead their cause, and it will be Gates that Hamilton so reviles.

“I see our views are irreconcilable,” George says, refusing to feel regret.

“As you say, sir.”

They have both finished caring for the horses, Gulliver having deigned to allow George to step to his other side without being kicked. George holds his brush out to Hamilton, slowly.

“You seem a noble man, Colonel. You must understand—if we are doomed, as _you_ say, this will be our Thermopylae.”

“I do not recall, General, that Leonidas left the fight to walk alone in a wood,” Hamilton returns, after a beat, and takes the brush with a frown.

It’s a low blow, and they both know it; George’s mouth tightens against his will. He forces himself to nod rather that retort, acknowledging the point. It’s almost something Burr would’ve said, but lacks the subtlety of a neutral delivery.

They stand for a moment, in detente.

It is broken only by the approach of one of Hamilton’s soldiers, barely noticeable in the darkness but for his boots crunching against the leaves.

“Begging pardon, sir,” the private says, holding out a tin tray.  “Your supper.” To George’s surprise, the tray is near-full; a hunk of bread, two apples, jerky, what looks like cheese.

It’s a far cry from the rations George’s men enjoy, half cold porridge and half stale crusts of rye, supplemented by venison or crabapples if they become lucky in the woods.

“Thank you, Jenkins,” Hamilton says crisply, all traces of passion carefully tamped down. He takes the tray and then, in a smooth movement, hands it to George. “Fetch another, please. Whatever is left over is fine.”

Jenkins falters, looking between them in confusion.

“Private,” Hamilton intones.

“Sir, yes, sir,” Jenkins says, hurriedly, and snaps off a salute even as he hurries backward.

“Thank you,” George says, quietly.

Hamilton turns without acknowledgment, picking his bedroll up from where he’d leaned it against a trunk. In the distance, George can make out Hamilton’s men settling themselves, a few remaining on their feet or sitting propped against trees, on guard.

Hamilton sets his bedroll out flat, digging a wool blanket from his saddlebags and laying it down as cover. He gestures for George to sit just as Jenkins returns, a second loaded tray in hand.

“Thank you, Private. You are on third watch?”

“Yessir, McElroy and Whitland are on first.”

“Very good. Dismissed, Private. Get some sleep.” Hamilton’s tone is commanding, but kind; Jenkins, who must be all of seventeen, looks pleased with himself as he departs.

Hamilton puts the tray down, adjusts his ever-present gun belt to be higher on his hip, and sits. His motion is ragged on the way down—perhaps an old injury, George thinks, for when Hamilton eases himself to the bedroll, one leg is extended in front of him rather than tucked beneath.

He notices George staring.

“A bayonet at Brandywine Creek,” he says, bitter. “So you must understand when I choose not to glorify the slaughter caused by your dishonorable rebellion.”

George doesn’t miss his own turn of phrase being used against him, nor the slight against his honor. But he chooses to sit, balancing the tray on his lap, rather than remark upon it; he has seen bayonet wounds, after all.

“You have my apologies for your injury, Colonel,” he says quietly, once they’ve each eaten a portion of their jerky and cheese.

Hamilton nods in return, face tight.

When they are done eating, a task best accomplished in silence, Hamilton sets the trays aside and walks a few feet away to relieve himself. George follows suit in the other direction; if there were a time to run, it would be now, when Hamilton’s men are beginning to fall asleep and Hamilton himself has his back turned and his hands empty.

But the guards are in the distance—McElroy and Whitland—and Hamilton won’t hesitate to follow. To shoot.

George closes his breeches and wipes his hands on the front of his thighs as best he can. He waits a single, long moment, breathing deep, and walks back to where Hamilton stands.

“You may make yourself comfortable, sir,” Hamilton says, inclining his head toward the bedroll and blanket.

“Thank you.”

George does, settling onto his back under the blanket. It is too cold, despite the added layer of wool; he cannot remember the last night on which he slept rough in such a manner. His field headquarters have been uniformly luxurious by comparison, and he thinks, absurdly, that he can feel every knob of every twig beneath the thin bedroll.

He does not say as much, however; he merely shifts to the side and leaves as much space as possible for Hamilton, as it is obvious that the lad has nowhere else to go.

George is not fool enough to think that Hamilton is selfless; no, the lad is canny, and clearly fully aware of the bounty that George’s head will bring. If they make it to New York, Hamilton will be famous; his honor preserved, he will rise in the esteem of his army and his nation. If Hamilton’s father does not already sit in the House of Lords, perhaps the lad will be rewarded with a seat in Commons.

And yet Hamilton has been careful to provide fair treatment, well above the minimum required. He has not only upheld the gentlemanly standard of captivity; he has in fact been careful to give everything to his prisoner, from his horse to his food to his bed.

 _Do not forget he brings you to your death,_ George thinks, but he lies down with a fair amount of appreciation nonetheless.

To his surprise, Hamilton does not join him, moving instead to kneel and make the sign of the cross. Hamilton’s eyes close as he begins to murmur. “ _Notre Père, qui es aux cieux, que ton nom soit sanctifiè..._ ”

George, hiding his surprise at Hamilton’s chosen language, turns on his side to give the lad a modicum of privacy.

 

——

 

It starts to rain an hour after they lie down. Neither of them is asleep; George is far too busy blaming himself to rest, and he can feel Hamilton’s tension from the other side of the bedroll. As the drops begin to fall, Hamilton curses, leaping up. He quickly rummages in his saddlebags to pull out a canvas tent. The other men do the same from their positions, about ten yards away, scrambling as the clouds announce their presence with a mighty roll of thunder.

George stands, stiff and awkward, and does his best to stay out of Hamilton’s way; wrists bound as they are, he will be of no help in this.

“Captain,” Hamilton says finally, looking up at George from where he kneels on the now-wet mat of leaves. He gestures at the small opening of the tent. “After you.”

If possible, the tent pushes them even closer together than they had been before; the canvas is not truly wide enough for two grown men, George realizes as he kneels to enter and judges the space. He finds himself grateful that Hamilton is narrow of shoulder when the lad joins him, somewhat damper than before.

George positions himself on his back, at the edge of the bedroll and blanket; Hamilton keeps his own coat on and lies similarly prone, though a stiffness to his frame belies his discomfort with the position. _Probably unwilling to turn his back to me_ , George thinks.

The drizzle turns into a downpour as Hamilton settles, folding one arm awkwardly on his chest and keeping the other hand loosely upon his gun belt.

“Thank you, Colonel; I find myself much obliged by your hospitality,” George says, quietly.

“We will reach General Clinton by sunset tomorrow,” Hamilton says, by way of a response. His eyes are open but looking stubbornly upward, not at George. “I will deliver you personally.”

“I had assumed as much. That wasn’t I was thanking you for,” George answers mildly. “You could’ve shot me on sight, in the wood. You could’ve hung me from a branch and hogtied my body to your horse for display at Fort Brooklyn. But you did not.”

“And you are surprised?”

“Not surprised. I am...grateful that you have respected the code of war,” George says, phrasing it carefully. “Lucky, perhaps, to have been so confronted by a man of your stature and honor. I am in your debt.”

“My stature,” Hamilton echoes, and there’s a weight to it that George cannot read.

George waits for him to continue, but the lad lies stubbornly quiet. His breaths begin to even out, slowly.

And then, despite his thoughts, despite the hard ground beneath his back and the ache in his bones, despite the phantom slide of rope under his chin and the red-raw chafing beneath the rope at his wrists, George follows Hamilton into sleep.

 

——

 

Somewhere in the woods, amidst the pouring rain, a twig cracks.

George is instantly awake, eyes wide and deathly still; Hamilton doesn’t stir, his back a solid, warm weight against George’s side. They’ve shifted, in the missing hours.

Somewhere, closer, there is a muffled thump; so muted that George only hears it because he is listening. Then another, and another, and George knows without question that it is time. It must be.

Outside of the rough canvas walls, George’s men are cutting down Hamilton’s, one at a time. There’s blood flying in the night.

Another, and another, quiet and quicker than the men can scream—they must have ambushed the guards first, in a concentrated effort to slit their throats before they could raise the alarm.

George doesn’t move a muscle. Hamilton still sleeps, and if George were to stir, he’d—they’d—

And then, finally, there’s a yell that makes it through the downpour, in what sounds like the voice of the young lieutenant. Hamilton jerks upright, swinging off the bedroll and to his rifle in the space of half a breath.

In an instant, George decides.

He kicks out, tripping the lad in his dash for the tent flap. Hamilton goes down, hard, and manages to roll over onto his back just as George leaps upon him with all his weight.

For a second they grapple, face to face, Hamilton’s rifle crushed uselessly between their chests. But before Hamilton can truly fight back, George takes his bound hands and twists Hamilton’s right arm from the shoulder until it snaps.

The lad's eyes are blown wide with the pain. He twists frantically, grabbing at George’s neck with his left; George holds him down with a knee and yanks his weapon free of the useless arm. George flips it up and hits Hamilton in the temple with the butt of his own rifle, hard.

Hamilton collapses wordlessly, eyes closed, and it’s the only thing that stops him from being shot when Aaron Burr rips the canvas off the tent, seconds later.

Burr is sopping wet. His eyes and forehead gleam in the darkness. His form is illuminated for an instant when lightning cracks across the sky, and in a single glimpse George can tell his shirt is black with blood.

“Good evening, Your Excellency,” Burr says, in perfect tone and cadence. He sweeps his eyes over George, who has one muddied knee still pressed to Hamilton’s chest. “If I may make a suggestion, sir--”

“Enough, Burr,” George cuts him off with a desperate laugh, freezing rain soaking into his hair and down the back of his shirt. “You may berate me later. I give you my word that I will not complain. But please, just get us out of here.”

  



	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks as usual to the spectacular [herowndeliverance](http://archiveofourown.org/users/atheilen).

Alexander wakes up flat on his back. There’s a stale, sour taste in his mouth; he must have been out for hours. Worse, there’s a sharp, blinding pain in his right arm, all the way from his shoulder to his hand.

He keeps his eyes shut, taking stock of his body and hoping, perhaps vainly, to conceal his status from anyone who might be observing. His head is throbbing, concentrated on his temple, and his leg aches as it always has since Brandywine, though it pales in comparison to his arm. He turns to his mind, next, and the last thing he remembers is a noise in the night, a scream, leaping up—and Washington, tripping him as though it were a common bar brawl, slamming his weight into Alexander’s chest. A crack of blinding pain, and then _nothing._ He thinks he might remember a few moments on horseback, jostled and bound, shrouded in the darkness of the night sky, his arm screaming, but when he tries to conjure the memories they slip from his mind like water.

And now, this. Even without looking, he can tell he is in a narrow bed, rough linens beneath him. He feels lower, engaging each muscle individually, and—

He is _chained_.

His eyes fly open, despite himself.

A thick, iron manacle encircles his right ankle, grating roughly against the skin beneath; a chain of no more than two yards serves to bind him to a similarly menacing ring set into the wall.

He is chained like an animal. The disgrace of it rises in the back of his throat, combining with the pain in his arm until he is swallowing bile, heart racing.

It is clear, now; Washington took him captive, and he lies in a rebel prison, waiting for death. Washington knocked him out, stripped his dignity—the man has no honor, despite what Alexander had started to think, and he must want to make an example of Alexander, must want to ridicule him before marching him to the gallows.

Alexander tries to breathe, but it takes several excruciating minutes before he can bring himself under control again.

A noise in the night, a scream— _my men_ , he thinks, and he does retch then, lurching upward and reaching blindly below the bed with his left hand until he finds a chamber pot. He vomits until his chest is screaming with the effort.

 _My men are dead,_ his mind repeats, and he knows it to be true. The rebels wouldn’t have saved them; if others had been taken, they would be sharing Alexander’s cell.

And just as soon: _It was my fault._

No one had ordered Alexander to wander off and capture Washington. No one else had been arrogant enough to have stood there facing the rebel General himself and believed that a spur-of-the-moment plan could succeed— _stupid, Alexander, stupid._ In that first moment in the clearing, anyone else would have taken Washington’s out and walked away. Left it alone.

But Alexander hadn’t, and even though they’d ridden knowing they were running out of time, they’d been caught. Slaughtered, for the price of his ambition.

Alexander turns onto his good side, choking back a gasp of pain at the movement. The chain clinks, but he doesn’t make a sound. He may be alone in this cell, but there are certainly guards outside, and he refuses to give them the satisfaction.

His men are dead, and it is his fault. He will hang before long and no one on this godforsaken continent will remember his name.

He doesn’t cry; he hasn’t cried since the ship, all those years ago, when the light had left Jamie’s eyes and water had spilled from Alexander’s, as bottomless as the ocean. So he doesn’t cry, or gasp, or scream. He lies on the bed, motionless, closes his eyes, and waits for death to come.

But his first visitor, some hours later, is instead a short, plump woman with dark brown, graying hair. She sweeps through the door after a perfunctory knock, startling Alexander out of his self-imposed silence.

“Why Colonel Hamilton,” she says, looking pleased. “Good morning; I am pleased to see you awake.”

Her dark eyes are kind, and it takes Alexander a moment to remind himself that whatever her comportment, she is a traitor to the crown. He flexes his ankle against the chain.

“Good morning, madam,” he says, sitting up carefully, with his ruined arm clutched across his chest. “I am afraid you have me at something of a disadvantage, as I have yet to have the pleasure of making your acquaintance.”

“Martha Washington,” she says with a smile, seating herself on the single wooden chair near the bed in a sweep of dark blue homespun as if those two words hadn’t shattered every preconception and defense built into Alexander’s mind.

“Madam,” he manages, as politely as he can. He moves to sit straighter, gritting his teeth against the jarring pain. He cannot avoid a flinch, and hopes desperately that she will not notice.

If this is Washington’s wife, then he—then this is not a prison, where a genteel lady would not dare to venture. Is it possible that this is—

“I imagine you have many questions,” Mrs. Washington continues, a spark of understanding in her eyes. “To answer what might be the first, this is the headquarters of the Continental Army.”

“And I am your prisoner.”

“Yes,” she confirms, brusque, and in the moment before she continues, Alexander is stunned that she does not make any attempt at gentling the truth. “My _husband_ , in his foolish attempt at securing himself an early death, has caused your affairs to become quite entangled. You are a prisoner, of circumstance. I do apologize, Colonel Hamilton, as my husband assures me you are otherwise a man of honor.”

Alexander finds he has no response for that, for a man thought to be honorable should, by all rights, be allowed to comport himself as such even while in captivity. But Alexander is shackled.

Mrs. Washington does not miss the flick of his eyes to his ankle.

“I recognize that you will find this difficult to believe,” she says, “But that was not George’s idea. In fact, I do not believe he knows the details of your status, as his aides were forced to take over your transport. He had quite a bit of correspondence to catch up on, after his return. I would remove it myself, if it would not cause more discord. George’s boys are quite passionate in their beliefs about redcoats, after all, and I would not have them retaliate against you.”

“And you are not as passionate yourself, madam?” The question slips out, even as Alexander is processing what she’s said. That Washington did not order him chained—

“Quite the contrary.” Mrs. Washington answers; her eyes go abruptly hard. “Your Army has ripped apart our people, murdered our sons, and caused years of pain and destruction, all to satisfy your King’s avarice. Do not mistake me for a Loyalist, Colonel Hamilton, for I could suffer no greater insult.”

Her tone is icy; Alexander looks away. He’s heard this invective before, from captured rebels or rebel sympathizers, and he has never allowed it to affect him—but Mrs. Washington says it with such finality, all sympathy utterly vanished from her countenance.  For the first time he can remember, Alexander is sorry he broached the topic.

“My apologies, madam,” he says, stiff and awkward.

There is a long moment of silence. Alexander stares at the bedsheets, until, suddenly, he sees a movement in his peripheral vision. A small, dry hand slips on top of his own, patting gently. He lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

“Apology accepted, Colonel,” Mrs. Washington says, her kindness returned. “Now, I have asked our camp doctor to attend to you, if you would allow it.”

“I…of course,” he answers, surprised that the rebels would tend to him so. Mrs. Washington releases his hand and stands with a brisk nod, sweeping out of the room. She carries out a brief conversation with a man she addresses as Dr. Fraser, and a moment later the doctor himself strides through Alexander’s doorway, dressed in a plain white shirt and brown jacket.

The next quarter-hour passes quickly and is yet interminable; Alexander wants nothing more than to forget every moment. He is summarily cut out of his filthy shirt and breeches and his arm—broken, Dr. Fraser informs him—is roughly wrangled into a sling. The doctor checks his eyes, frowns at the scars upon his leg, and pokes at the throbbing spot on his head, before finally, blessedly departing.

He leaves a tincture of unknown origin on the bedside table, claiming it will help with the pain. Alexander ignores it, brushing away memories of tossing through childhood fever with the bitter taste of ineffective elixirs on his tongue, and slumps back down to the pillows instead.

He hurts all over, and even while his clothing had kept the worst of the grime off his skin, he’s acutely aware of the lingering scents of vomit and creek water.

There’s nothing for it, though; he cannot stand or wash, chained as he is with one arm out of commission. He shifts to pull the sheet over his lap and tries, unsuccessfully, to sleep.

 _You seem a noble man,_ Washington had said, and _I am in your debt._ But only hours later, the rebels had slaughtered Alexander’s men— _Christ,_ Alexander thinks, _Jenkins was only seventeen._

Alexander runs through the scenario in his mind, over and over again. What could he have done differently? Let Washington go, of course, but both Alexander and Washington would have known that Alexander faltered—that his loyalty to the King was in question—that he’d thrown away his shot at ensuring the victory of His Majesty’s Army—no, that was no choice, not for Alexander. Anyone else could have walked away and should have let it go, but even now, sick with the knowledge that his men are dead, Alexander knows to his bones that he would not have chosen differently.

 _Then you are responsible for their deaths,_ the rational part of his mind reminds him. _If you are to ever stagger home again, free of this chain, it will be with the weight of their bodies upon your shoulders; men will know you only for the men who you lost. Your legacy is to be one of carnage, all at the cost of your own damned honor._

He pictures it; standing at attention in front of General Erskine’s walnut desk, reporting that every man who joined him on the scouting mission had been lost. But, of course, for himself. Erskine would send him to Clinton, surely, and there would likely be an investigation of some sort to placate the enlisted men who would call for Alexander’s head. Perhaps a court-martial.

The news would filter back to Glasgow, before long.

Alexander’s reputation—well. Things happen in war. If he describes the incident as an ambush, and tells only that chapter of the story during the court-martial, it might fade from memory. If he claims to have captured General Washington himself—he’d be ruined.

But he’d promised God to be honest, all those years ago. And if he could just write it down, to provide a full and accurate accounting of the situation, perhaps they’d…

He is saved from his deliberation by a knock at the door; he has just enough time to cover himself more tightly with the sheet before Mrs. Washington returns, a large metal basin under her arm and a washing towel tucked into her apron.

Alexander flushes hot from his ears to his chest. He is practically nude, and Mrs. Washington is a woman of stature; this is utterly improper, and Washington is unlikely to thank Alexander for behaving in such a way with his wife.

“Madam, I apologize, I appreciate your efforts but truly must insist that you depart,” he says quickly, trying to pull the sheet higher with his left hand.

“Nonsense,” Mrs. Washington says plainly, gently setting the water-filled basin on the side table and standing over Alexander with the towel in hand. She fishes a bar of soap out of her apron pocket.  “I have both son and husband, and have spent several seasons in camp besides. You have nothing which I have not seen before, unless the rumors are true and the redcoats have begun to grow horns and tails?”

“No, madam, but your husband would surely—”

“My husband would hardly complain; he informed me several times that you saved his life.”

 _He did?_ Alexander falters for a moment, distracted.

“That is not precisely how I would phrase it, madam,” he says, carefully.

“Be that as it may, he was quite clear on the topic. Who do you imagine requested that I tend to you today?”

“I see,” Alexander manages, casting his eyes about for an excuse. “I…thank you, madam, if you just leave the basin, I can wash.”

“With that arm?” Mrs. Washington tsks, shaking her head. “I’ll hear no more of that. Sit up, now, I’ll do my best not to jostle it, but you’re likely to wish to hold still.”

Before he can protest further, Alexander finds himself complying. He shifts upright, minding his sling. Mrs. Washington hums in approval and, without another word, wets the towel, flourishes her bar of soap, and sets to scrubbing his back.

Alexander closes his eyes, face red-hot, but holds still; he knows his own stench is far from pleasing, and the very act of sitting had sent spikes of pain through his arm. He is forced to concede that she was right, and he swallows his humiliation in favor of quiet compliance.

Though she scrubs gently, Alexander feels raw; as though the fragile coating that holds his essence together is being sloughed away with the dirt and dead skin. He shivers at the sensation, grateful that Mrs. Washington chooses not to comment.

She makes small talk, instead, telling Alexander about the two quail that the cook has received from one of the more intrepid hunters in camp; about the skills of the new farrier, which to date have proven somewhat lacking, and about the sorry situation in the General’s office below, where the trunks of papers and books have yet to be truly unpacked and their contents is instead strewn about the floor.

Alexander nods along, grateful for the distraction and that she does not appear to expect any response. After only a few minutes passed in this fashion, his torso, face, and hair are cleaned; to Alexander’s utter horror, Mrs. Washington does not stop there, moving to his feet and legs until the towel passes Alexander’s knees and threatens the sheet that preserves what little of his dignity remains.

She looks at him knowingly, though, and stops.

“I’ll leave you to it,” she says, patting his free hand and setting the soap and towel at his side. “If you need anything, just give a call. I should hear it downstairs; your room is just over the kitchen. I’m afraid the chimneys are shared, however, and you’re likely to hear every bit of the commotion at suppertime. I’ll have someone bring you a plate, of course.”

“Thank you, madam,” he says, meaning it sincerely.

She wipes her hands on her apron, walking to the door and turning back for a final look at Alexander.

“George will be by soon,” she says, facing him squarely and locking her dark eyes onto Alexander's own. “I am quite sure it does not need to be said, not to a man of honor such as yourself, but as a wife—I find I am compelled to ask for your assurances that you will not attempt to cause him harm, whether with your body or with accusations.”

Sitting there naked, his skin still tingling from Mrs. Washington’s ministrations, his arm as comfortable as it can be under the circumstances after treatment from Mrs. Washington’s doctor, Alexander knows there is only one possible response.

Even after the deaths of his men; even with the chain on his ankle; even with his future reputation disintegrating in front of his eyes.

“Of course, madam. You have my word.”

 

——

 

But General Washington does not visit; not in the first hour, nor the second. Alexander lies listlessly still.

Mrs. Washington’s prediction about the kitchens is quickly shown to be true. Near sunset, a commotion erupts below. Alexander can hear every word uttered by the cooks and servants as they scramble, complaining all the while about the quality of the rations provided. It is benign conversation, really, though the clanging of pots is enough to keep him awake until a serving girl brings him a bowl of quail stew and a crust of bread.

He finds he is famished, even for rebel rations.

After that, as the noises fade from the kitchen, he tries to sleep; he ignores the doctor’s tincture and forces himself to instead push away the pain in his arm by breathing deeply and reciting what few passages of Virgil he remembers from Monsieur Montagne.

He does not notice when the exhaustion takes hold, but he must sleep, for at some point later, he is startled awake by the sound of voices below.

“Your Excellency.” It’s an unfamiliar man, his tone tight with anger.

“Colonel,” another man responds, with something that almost sounds like a sigh. It’s General Washington, Alexander realizes instantly. The timbre of his voice is unmistakable. Something deep and visceral clamps down on Alexander’s chest, like the bars of a cage sliding into place.

He doesn’t want to be here, helpless and weak, listening from upstairs as the leader of the rebel army drinks his tea and plans the next massacre of the King’s forces. But the manacle lies heavy upon Alexander’s ankle, reinforced by his promise to the General’s wife, and he finds he cannot move. Cannot make a sound.

“Permission to speak freely, sir,” the unknown man continues, downstairs.

“Granted. But, you wish to do this here, in the kitchen? My office would—no, don’t look at me that way, Colonel. Fine. I gave you my word I would not protest, and I will not.” A pause; Alexander imagines the General exhaling, rallying himself for whatever conversation lies ahead. “May I be seated, or must I stand to endure my scolding?”

“Your Excellency,” the Colonel repeats, sharper. Alexander imagines the two men staring each other down across the kitchen table.

There is a long pause; Alexander wonders if they’ve walked away, down the hall to Washington’s office, the war room, the library, whatever else must be in this headquarters—but no, he hears no footsteps, no slamming of doors.

“You’re right,” Washington says, finally. “My apologies, Burr. That was uncalled for.”

More silence.

“I’m sorry, Burr. You have to know that I did not intend for any of this to happen, it was simply an accident of fate, or of timing.”

“We thought you were dead,” the other man—Burr—says, voice cold and filled with the audacity required to interrupt his General. “You _elected_ to walk off unaccompanied and never returned.”

“Son, I—”

“ _We thought you were dead_ ,” Burr says, voice harder. “The Commander-in-Chief of the Continental Army, and you chose to make yourself an easy target. You walked into the woods and did not come back.”

“I know. It was unforgivably reckless. Lafayette has told me often enough.”

“ _Lafayette_ has told you?” Even a floor away, Alexander can hear the challenge in Burr’s tone. He winces mentally, careful not to jostle his arm. Washington’s words, however benign they seemed to Alexander, had pierced through this new man’s skin and cut him to the core.

“ _You_ have told me just as often, Colonel. I apologize,” Washington says then.

There is another stretch of silence; Alexander can hear only his own heartbeat. Finally, there’s a creak from downstairs. He imagines one or the other of them standing taller, rallying for the next attempt at bridging what must be a raw and widening chasm between them.

The next to speak is Burr; Alexander’s ears prick at the formality in his tone.

“You will have my resignation on your desk in the morning, sir.”

“Burr,” Washington says, deep and long. “Aaron. You cannot mean to leave; this was not your fault.”

“Of course it was not my fault, sir. I am not so self-deprecating as to assume blame for activities which directly contradicted my suggestions and better judgment.”

“Then what—”

“I have failed to gain your respect, Your Excellency. The events of the last two days were merely a symptom of the disease which has festered in these last two years. It has become clear that my position is untenable, for a General must trust his chief aide-de-camp. I am unable to continue in this position, though with your permission I will gladly continue to fight for our cause.”

“Of course I trust you, Colonel,” Washington tries.

“When was the last time you took my counsel on an issue of importance?”

“I do so regularly, of course—”

“Do you?”

There is a noise of frustration; Alexander thinks it must be Washington, as Burr seems more inclined to let the silences between their words linger.

“I confess only that I do not maintain a ledger of all of my aides to determine whose thoughts on a particular issue led to a decision,” Washington says, then. “If my trust in you is to be tested, then so must you also trust me when I say that I hold your counsel in equal esteem with that of every other aide and officer. If my actions have suggested otherwise, and caused you to rescind your commitment to me, I assure you that this was not my intention.”

“Do you know how many men I killed last night?”

A pause.

“Five. With my own knife. Do not presume to question my commitment to you, sir.”

Alexander’s stomach roils—those were—are—his men, Jenkins and the lot of them, and they hadn’t been the best of soldiers or the best of people but they’d been _his,_ to manage and protect, and this Burr had singlehandedly cut so many down—

“My apologies,” Washington repeats. “I did not intend to cause such discord, nor trouble you and the others in my absence.”

“And yet you did not hesitate before walking off in the woods,” Burr counters, “Nor did you hesitate before bringing that damned redcoat back here to eat our food and sleep under our roof!”

“Enough!” Washington says, loudly enough to be called a shout.

Alexander cannot hear what comes next, and he wonders, unbidden, if they are whispering or if Washington is simply looming, drawn up to his full height and using his presence to force Burr into silence.

“I acknowledge my role in this affair was most careless and destructive. I can assure you that it will not happen again, and I promise you that I shall respect the role and duties of the honor guard in the future. I will alter those behaviors of mine which led me to risk harm to you and the others,” Washington continues, finally; it’s quieter, but Alexander can hear every word.

“And harm to _yourself._ ”

“Yes, Colonel. You have my word. But in exchange, I would have yours; you will not resign for any perceived affronts without allowing me the opportunity to attempt reconciliation.”

There is another pause; Alexander imagines them staring at each other, Washington’s eyes determined but sincere. Alexander finds he cannot picture this Burr at all.

“Very well,” Burr acknowledges, a beat later. “I serve at Your Excellency’s direction.”

“Thank you,” Washington says, and Alexander imagines he can almost hear his exhale. “In that case, let us put today’s events aside and continue with establishing camp tomorrow; there is a long winter ahead. You are dismissed, Colonel, with my most sincere appreciation for your…commitment.”

There is a rustle, as though Burr has perhaps bowed and turned to leave.

“And Colonel?"

“Yes, Your Excellency?”

“The lad upstairs is to be considered under my personal protection. Is that clear?”

“Quite, sir.”

There is an echo of footsteps as Burr walks away. Alexander sinks back into his pillows, mind racing, with all thoughts of sleep forgotten.

 


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two things!
> 
> [ossapher](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ossapher) made ART for the story and it is AMAZING, [ see it here! ](http://philly-osopher.tumblr.com/post/145704725459/i-guess-for-full-impact-i-really-should-have)
> 
> And thanks as always to [herowndeliverance](http://archiveofourown.org/users/atheilen) for editing and keeping me consistent!

 

 

Alexander wakes early the next morning. He cannot see fully out of the windowpanes, chained as he is, but from the light he thinks it must be just past sunrise.

The rest of the house is silent; not even a whisper arises from the kitchens below.

He is still in a scandalous state of undress, though Mrs. Washington had promised to bring by a new set of clothing before breakfast. Despite his exhaustion and the warmth of the sheets and woolen blanket, he’d barely slept; his ankle and arm had ached too violently to be forgotten.

He shuffles to an upright position, uncomfortably, and relieves himself in the chamber pot. That accomplished, he sets to re-examining his prison with a fresh set of eyes. The manacle, chain, narrow bed—everything is at it was the day before. A small side table, chair, fireplace, and the square window complete the tableau; the room cannot be more than ten feet across.

It is better than a prison ship, he reminds himself, settling with his back against the wall and the blanket drawn around his person. There is not much to do, after that. Alexander has no talent for boredom, and quickly wishes for a book, quill, or papers; anything to serve as a distraction.

Nothing comes.

After a quarter hour, or perhaps a half, the commotion of breakfast clearly begins; Alexander loses himself to eavesdropping upon the preparation of porridge and tea and the cook’s complaints at the lack of cured ham. General Washington is, apparently, quite fond of the stuff.

A knock startles him out of listening, midway through the boiling of water.

“Colonel Hamilton?”

Mrs. Washington enters as soon as he acknowledges her, a bundle of cloth held to her hip.

“Good morning, Colonel,” she says brightly, not waiting for his response. “I do apologize for the delay; I had hoped to find something that would fit you more comfortably. I’m afraid you will have to settle for one of my husband’s shirts, though the breeches are from Colonel Burr; you are of a height, and he was kind enough to lend them to you for the duration of your stay.”

Your stay. It rings in Alexander’s ears; it is most certainly not the noun which he himself would use to describe his sorry state, but he thinks better of challenging Mrs. Washington on her choice of term.

“Good morning, madam,” he answers instead, “Thank you, you are most generous.”

“I’m afraid your others were beyond saving.” Mrs. Washington nods to acknowledge him with a smile, setting the clothing down beside his hip. “I shall endeavor to locate a coat that will serve.”

Alexander does not ask what has happened to his own crimson coat, which he’d washed and stitched himself by hand ever since earning it, all those years ago in Glasgow. It does not matter; after all; it is only a symbol. _It is nothing,_ he thinks, swallowing. _Nothing at all._

“And how do you fare today?” Mrs. Washington asks, more slowly now that her delivery is done.

“Well, by comparison,” he answers. “Thank you.”

“Excellent.” She smiles; Alexander does not miss her eyes raking up and down his person, nor her slight frown at the ever-present manacle.

“I am afraid I will be indisposed for much of the day; there is to be a supper in town this evening, and there are many preparations to be made. I will ensure that food is brought up, however, and instruct the staff to see to any needs you might have,” Mrs. Washington continues. “As for…that,” she frowns at his ankle again. “I shall corner my husband when he returns, and send him up with a key to ease your discomfort.”

Alexander thinks, quite passionately, that he would rather plunge himself voluntarily into a vat of boiling oil than allow George Washington to observe him sitting naked, broken, and chained to the wall of a rebel base.

“I’m sure the General is quite preoccupied, madam; though I appreciate your concern, it is truly not necessary,” he tries, making a violent effort to keep his tone level and polite.

“Nonsense. He has asked after your welfare, and from the sound of it, you two have much in common.”

“Madam, I can assure you that we have nothing in common whatsoever,” Alexander objects.

“Is that so?”

“I…I beg your pardon, madam, but given the length of our acquaintance, I must point out politely that you know nothing of my background or character,” he sputters, trying to avoid causing offense but equally unwilling to accept any comparisons.

“All right,” Mrs. Washington nods, unruffled and pleasant as ever. “Then why don’t you allow me to assist you into your shirt, and tell me something of yourself.”

She picks up the garment in question and looks at him expectantly, a twinkle in her eye. Alexander realizes, with an inward groan, that she’d simply been waiting for him to talk himself into this very corner.

“Of course, madam,” he says stiffly, conceding the point; she nods in satisfaction, clearly just as aware of her victory as Alexander.

“Why don’t we start with your Christian name, then, Colonel? And sit up a bit further, just there,” she continues smoothly, maneuvering him into place.

“Alexander,” he responds begrudgingly, flushing red from his chest to cheeks as she pulls his sheet down and away.

“It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” Mrs. Washington says in approval, her hands going to work on Alexander’s sling. “Of course, a name alone is not enough to disprove any similarities to my George.” She pulls back just far enough to give Alexander a knowing look, good humor in her eyes.

“I had thought the color of our coats might also have sufficed,” Alexander says, allowing himself a single, long-suffering sigh. “Very well.”

“Where are you from, dear?” Mrs. Washington asks, having freed Alexander’s broken arm from its confines. The slight jarring motion sends a wave of nausea deep into Alexander’s gut, the pain spiking near his shoulder and running a line of fire from his fingertips to spine. “Don’t move that, now, or the doctor will have both our heads.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he pants, gritting his teeth as she pulls the shirt down over his head and good arm, straightening the sleeves with her deft, small fingers. “And Scotland.”

“Whereabouts?”

“Glasgow. Or just outside, on the coast. A small to—town,” Alexander continues, trying to let the words distract him from the re-emergent pain; it works, until she gently pulls the sleeve up and over his broken arm and his voice cannot help but crack.

“And what does your father do?”

“He is…dead,” Alexander lies, less than smoothly, as Mrs. Washington’s hands retreat and pick up the blasted sling once more. Father might as well be dead, anyway, with more than a decade of silence between them. What is it to the rebels, anyway, what Father might be doing—

Mrs. Washington pauses in her ministrations and catches his eye, then, and both her smile and her crafty humor are gone, replaced by a deep, wordless sharing of grief. Her eyes tell Alexander more than he’d ever thought to know about the Washingtons’ past.

“I am sorry for your loss,” she says quietly, and a bubble of guilt does well in Alexander’s throat. He swallows it down and looks away.

The moment broken, Mrs. Washington continues to loop the linen straps of the sling, slowly but firmly reeling his arm tighter to his chest.

“Do you have a family of your own, or siblings?”

“No and…no, madam.”

She pauses to pat his free hand softly in response. “I am sorry to hear that. Is there someone back in your town—you did not mention the name—to manage things, in your absence?”

“Stevenston. My uncle,” he gasps, trying not to flinch as she ties the sling off in a knot.

“You are fortunate, then, than he can assist in your affairs while you are so far away,” Mrs. Washington says.

His shirt is finally on--well, General Washington’s shirt is on him, at least. It would be impossible to miss the difference in size, even if Alexander were wearing breeches to tuck it into. The sleeves extend well past his hands and the seams of the shoulders fall halfway to his elbow; it is abundantly, uncomfortably clear that Alexander is no match for the General in either breadth or stature.

“Something like that,” Alexander answers at last. It is clear she thinks him an heir, and his uncle merely a regent; he has neither the stamina nor the will to explain the whole sorry situation at this juncture, however. He settles for collapsing back against the head of the bed, ashamed at how thoroughly the simple acts of dressing and holding his own in conversation have drained his energy.

Mrs. Washington simply nods, moving on. “The breeches will have to wait until your ankle is free, I’m afraid.”

“Of course, madam. Thank you—you have my gratitude, for your kindnesses.”

“You are most welcome, Colonel,” she says, standing to leave. She pauses for a moment, considering, but departs without another word.

——

Alexander’s next visitor does not knock; perhaps he doesn’t think of it, or doesn’t care, thinking that Alexander does not merit such niceties. In either event, General Washington opens the door not an hour later, clad once more in his rebel-blue greatcoat.

“Colonel Hamilton,” Washington says. Alexander notes, distantly, that there’s a flush to his cheeks, as though he’s just come inside.

“General Washington,” Alexander bites out in response, pushing himself up with his free hand. He’s hardly seen the man and there’s already fury searing the inside of his chest.

Washington regards him for a moment, thick brows raised in unspoken, uncompromising expectation.

“Sir,” Alexander adds, a beat too late to be anything but a response to Washington’s look. Alexander resents it; even more than that, he resents himself for caving.

“I am glad to see you well,” Washington says next, his words an echo of his wife’s.

But whatever propriety Alexander cannot help but observe for a lady of Mrs. Washington’s stature is not applicable here, when Alexander is facing down the very man who has caused this entire mess.

Alexander’s promise to Mrs. Washington is in the back of his mind. He will not hurt the General, or curse at him, or denigrate his family. But lying here, stripped of his clothing, his pride, and his hope, Alexander does not intend to allow Washington to think even for a moment that he is forgiven.

“On the contrary. Sir. I have been reliably informed that my arm is quite broken,” he says, icily, even as his lungs feel ravaged by flames. His whole body thrums with heat, as though the simple sight of Washington’s visage was enough to spark the tinder beneath his skin.

“You have my apologies for that; it was the clearest way to…”

“Clearest way to ensure that I would be reduced to this?” Alexander continues in a hiss; he shakes his naked, chained ankle, and the noise of it draws Washington’s eyes away from his face for the first time. “To strip me of clothing and dignity, even as only hours before you thanked me for fair treatment—”

“I find I have several errors for which to apologize, then,” Washington concedes, tired but mild. “My men were quite…boisterous, upon discovering our positions, and at the time I was not in a place to disagree. I can see, however, that my inaction has caused you harm and indignity; this was not my intent.”

“Not your intent when you _captured me_.”

“No. You treated me with respect and honor, and I had intended to do the same; my actions in the moment were only to secure the safety of your person, for I believe my men would have…” Washington trails off.

Alexander, aflame, does not hesitate. Seeing Washington’s unspoken concern, he charges at it headlong.

“Because your men are barbarians who slaughtered unarmed boys in the dead of night—”

“Enough,” Washington intones, glaring from under his brows. “I have said my piece, and I have apologized. I’m not here to fight with you, son.”

And oh, the fire is full-bodied and screaming, now, the tinder but a distant memory; Alexander thinks it a wonder that he can breathe at all, for surely he must begin to choke upon the smoke.

But before Alexander can respond, before he can yell, Washington is moving; one of his massive hands is reaching into the pocket of his coat and drawing out a cast-iron key. The other hand is reaching for Alexander’s ankle, and Alexander flinches with his entire body at the contact; Washington’s hand is cool and dry, and Alexander freezes under it for the three long seconds it takes for Washington to unlock and remove the manacle.

It comes free with a grinding click, and Washington casts it aside on the bed, not sparing it another glance. He looks instead at Alexander’s ankle, rubbed red and near-raw from a day of continuous contact.

Washington removes his hands, then, and the heat in Alexander’s veins cools to a simmer.

“Ah,” Washington says, remembering, “Martha said—breeches. Please, go ahead.”

He does the unthinkable, then, and turns his back to Alexander. He faces the opposite wall and clasps his hands behind his back with all of the natural, unhurried grace of an experienced soldier.

And Alexander could--the chain is right there, or the bedsheet, or his own bare hands--Washington appears unarmed, and Alexander, even one-handed, would have the element of surprise--

The brown cotton of the breeches meets his palm almost before he knows that he’s made a decision. A few difficult, one-handed maneuvers later, he is dressed and clean for the first time since that damned walk in the woods; Washington stands as before, unbothered.

As Alexander lowers himself back to the bed, both ankles free and legs stretched for the first time in a day, a wave of uncomfortably sincere gratitude sweeps over him—and _no_ , he thinks, vehemently, _do not fool yourself by feeling grateful, Alexander, do not forget your place, you are a prisoner here._

“I trust you are more comfortable,” Washington says, when Alexander’s taken a seat on the creaking bed. He turns back to face Alexander, face somehow a notch more guarded than it had been only a moment before.

“I am. Thank you, sir,” Alexander answers warily.

Washington runs his hand over his face, shifting. “I am glad. I will leave you to rest, then, but first there is another matter to discuss. I would be delinquent to….well.” He pauses, rallies himself; Alexander can almost feel his discomfort radiating from several feet away.

In the next moment, Alexander’s gut twitches; what utterance could possibly cause General Washington, of all people, to look so unsure? But then Washington continues, and Alexander’s breath catches with the realization.

“What do you know of General Clinton’s plans?”


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks to [herowndeliverance](http://archiveofourown.org/users/atheilen) for the read through!!

The question lingers, heavy with weight. Alexander’s not stupid; he had known this was a possibility, one among a multitude of outcomes including swinging from the gallows and falling at the mercy of the firing squad.

But for Washington himself, whom Alexander had just saved, by the man’s own admission—for Washington himself to attempt to build Alexander’s sympathy by dispatching his own wife as a nursemaid, and then stand before him and expect him to commit treason—the duplicity of it leaks poison into Alexander’s gut.

“Sir,” he says, low and angry, balling his good fist in the sheets, “I would never dream of saying a single word against my King, nor would I dream to ask you to betray your cause—it is most uncouth and dishonorable to levy such a query against an officer. You know this as well as I.”

“Colonel—”

“I will not dignify your words with a response,” Alexander continues, closing his mouth with finality and glaring daggers in Washington’s direction.

“Colonel,” Washington repeats, raising a hand in a futile attempt to placate Alexander. “I had assumed your feelings would be such. But questioning is a fair and common thing, in war. I would not—”

“Would not see me to my grave without making at least an attempt, I see,” Alexander cuts him off. “Well, you have, Your Excellency, you may rest your conscience in peace when I hang.”

Washington exhales.

“Colonel, I ask you kindly to allow me to say my piece without interruption—”

“—So you may further insult both my integrity and your own pride?”

“Have you even considered that I might be more desperate than proud?” Washington shouts, his voice almost breaking. “I am no more pleased than you with,” Washington gestures wildly, “ _this,_ and I had mistakenly thought you would take my position and intentions into account rather than passing judgment upon my character in such a fashion.”

He pauses and starts again, quieter.

“If I did not ask, my men would insist; their methods involve considerably more bloodshed than my own. You cannot be so naive as to think we are in a position to ignore your value.”

Alexander tightens his jaw and fights an urge to retort. Washington’s right, of course; and it is suddenly, instantly clear to Alexander why the General had looked awkward and unsure; why he had yelled and seemed so far removed from his previous confidence. Because Alexander can imagine how he himself would feel, facing a gentleman prisoner who by the customs of war should be respected on his merit as an officer but being forced to question him like a common thief.  

But that flicker of understanding is extinguished, seconds later, when Washington continues, locking his eyes on Alexander’s.

“You could end the war,” he says, quiet but intense. “Thousands of men are going to die, but what you know could change that, son. Your men, those boys, Jenkins and the others—that doesn’t have to happen again.”

And though Alexander has been content to sit, injured and exhausted as he is, he cannot simply—Washington cannot—Alexander lurches to his feet before he is even aware of commanding his legs to move. He ignores the pain in his arm, pushing it away with all his might, and draws up to his full height.

“You cannot put the weight of the war on me,” Alexander replies fiercely, body flooded with heat. “You _cannot.”_

Washington says nothing, maintaining his gaze.

“You are most cruel, sir,” Alexander continues, voice rising. “And you are most unjust, to attempt to pressure me so when you know of my convictions, and when I know that despite your allegiances you are at least a man of honor. You cannot place the blame for deaths in a war _you started_ upon my shoulders, and you cannot possibly be so naive as to think that a single lieutenant colonel would hold the key to an impossible victory. I will hear no more.”

He finishes in a yell, wishing he were tall enough to stand nose-to-nose with the General.

“Cruel,” Washington repeats, looking away. “Perhaps, and dishonorable besides.”

He takes a step back, ceding the room, and leaves without another word to Alexander; his large frame barely allows him to duck out through the door.

Alexander is left standing in the silence, chest heaving. He realizes, belatedly, that he has been left unfettered.

It matters not, however; this is surely a test, just as the the lack of a key scraping in the lock is surely a ploy to tempt Alexander into an escape. Washington will have told the guards to expect him; to trap him and beat him and cut him down like the redcoat scum he is.

He grits his teeth against the fury and sits back down on the damned bed. His limbs move freely, yet he is somehow even more chained than before.

  


\---

 

 

After Washington’s visit, the rest of the day inches by in interminable boredom. Alexander recites Latin and composes essays in his head, his fingertips twitching for want of a quill. It is not enough; when he loses a thread or forgets the next verse, the guilt and rage rise from a simmer to a boil. His men’s faces flash before his eyes, brutal reminders of his fatal mistake and Washington’s—treachery is not the right word, no, nor betrayal—revenge, perhaps.

He sleeps when he can, through the ever-present throb of his arm; he eats what the serving girl brings without complaint. He thanks her politely when she brings an empty chamber pot.

No one else visits.

Alexander had learned how to be alone, after Jamie—at the Grange. He’d mastered it in Glasgow, when his reliance on Uncle John’s money had discouraged him from trips to the tavern. But after years of war, living and breathing in close quarters with dozens of others, the forced solitude is yet another wave in his sea of discomfort. The quiet forces him to think, and thinking forces him to remember. The cycle ebbs and flows, over and over again.

When Mrs. Washington raps on his door again, the next morning, he tries and fails to stifle his feeling of relief.

 _It is because she provides a distraction,_ he tells himself, _no more. Your loyalty remains unchanged._

“Good morning, Colonel,” she says; she’s carrying a fresh basin of water, and Alexander realizes with horror that she’s got the soap and several washrags tucked into her apron pockets again. His face flushes before he can so much as respond to her greeting.

“Good morning, madam,” he manages; she chuckles, presumably at his look, and he feels the heat rise even further in his face.

“Oh, you needn’t look at me so, Colonel—may I call you Alexander? I intend only to leave these here for your use, as I trust your condition continues to improve,” she says kindly, not waiting for his response as she sets the items in question down on the night-table. “As I am sure you know, establishing a camp and building goodwill with the local residents requires much time and investment; I am afraid I will be out of the house once again today. You are free to move about within it, of course, and if you find yourself in need of anything, you must only ask.”

She looks at him with an expectant smile.

“Of course, thank you, madam,” he replies, after taking a beat to allow his mind to catch up with his ears. “I—free to move about?”

He understands why she has to leave, of course; the wife of the commander in chief hardly has the time to play nursemaid to a prisoner. She is, after all, the most infamous woman in the colonies. He’d expected her absence, but he’d equally expected her to ask him to keep to his room, though, or inform him gently that the door would be locked while she was away. He hadn’t expected…this.

“Yes, certainly—did George not tell you, yesterday? Everyone in the house has been informed of your situation and each has offered their personal word that you will not be molested while you are our guest. I must insist you stay inside, of course, for the boys in camp will not be as kind,” she answers, her brow furrowing slightly.

“Ah, it must have…slipped his mind,” Alexander says in response, careful to keep his tone level and avoid all mention of the abortive interrogation and shouting match. “But of course, madam.”

Mrs. Washington only hums in response, as if she knows; the flush in Alexander’s cheeks fails to recede. The walls are thin enough that the entire house probably heard them, anyway.

“I do apologize that I cannot stay,” she says, then, turning to leave. “I will see you tomorrow, Alexander.”

He manages, just barely, to avoid flinching at the sound of his own name, spoken with such familiarity by a woman who—who should by all rights be imprisoned for her own part in the colonies’ inglorious revolt—but who has been kind and gentle, for all that she, too, is his jailor—

“Tomorrow, madam,” he echoes, politely, trying to ignore the tightening twist of conflict in his chest.

Mrs. Washington leaves with a smile, the door closing but not locking behind her.

Alexander forces all thoughts of his situation aside and sets to the painful and tedious task of bathing himself one-handed. His hair is the most critical, he decides; the length does not lend itself well to oil and grit.

He manages to pass an hour with washing, and dozes through another two; then it is luncheon. From the chatter of the kitchen staff below Alexander’s room, he knows that all that will be served is stale bread and salt pork, a far cry from the rations Alexander has become accustomed to in His Majesty’s Army. But Alexander swallows it down, just as he had with the plain porridge in the morning.

(He’d heard what happened last year at Valley Forge; everyone had, red and blue coats alike. Disgusting as the rebel rations may be, Alexander is not fool enough to let them go to waste.)

The kitchen staff disperses in the long hours between luncheon and dinner; Alexander’s room falls silent. He recites the psalms, in order, until even that is not enough to stave off the reality of his situation.

And so it is that he finally stands, restless, and decides to venture out into the hall. He cradles his sling tightly to his chest and takes a deep breath before turning the doorknob, still half-expecting a guard to berate him and pummel him into the floor.

The hallway is, instead, empty. It is a spartan expanse of plain wooden walls, punctuated by equally plain doors similar to Alexander’s. There are stairs at each end; the ones nearest his room, he knows, lead to the kitchens.

He starts down the narrow staircase before he can falter and retreat. Alexander has rarely found himself to be lacking in confidence, but as he is now—a prisoner in this large, echoing house that the rebels had commandeered for their scheming—his heart ticks louder with every step that he descends.

He reaches the kitchens as expected; they are blessedly devoid of people, and he takes a moment to lean against the wall and catch his breath. His arm _hurts,_ much as he’s tried to ignore it.

He fetches himself water, then, and settles on a stool close to the hearth. His room has been just temperate enough to be bearable, but he’s long had a preference for warmth. The fire crackles invitingly behind him, and Alexander would lean back against the stones but for the fact that it’s Washington’s shirt that he would ruin with soot. He settles for inching the stool closer and trying to relax.

By his reckoning, he should have about an hour before the cook returns to make preparations for supper; he’s already decided to make himself scarce long before then. For now, however, he closes his eyes and tries to enjoy this small moment of freedom.

(And oh, what he wouldn’t give to simply stand and walk out, away from this house and these rebels and this sickening guilt—but he’d given his word. And even if he hadn’t—Washington had stormed out and left him unchained, and Alexander has never been one to back down from a challenge.)

“Le nouveau régiment est un…est un gâchis!” Someone says, then, and Alexander flings his eyes open and lurches to his feet just as two men breeze into the kitchen from the hall. The elder man paces straight to a cupboard on the opposite wall, ignoring Alexander’s presence completely, and flings it open with force.

“Oui, monsieur, mais est seulement le premier jou—” The younger and smaller of the two says, consoling, but stops short upon catching sight of Alexander, his eyes going wide. “Ah, Monsieur,” he stammers. “Nous avons un…visiteur.”

“Eh bien, qui est-il?” The large man retrieves a single apple from the depths of the cupboard, at long last, and turns to face his companion, irritated, until he catches sight of Alexander.

His expression doesn’t shift; it merely smooths over, in a practiced and aristocratic gambit. He stands taller, straighter, and Alexander realizes—had already realized, from his French—that this is no Colonial rebel. But nor is it the famed Marquis de Lafayette, for this man is older, stouter, and with an accent that speaks of the east.

“Ah,” the large man says, leaning casually back against the cupboard and taking a bite of his apple. “Laissez-nous, Pierre, merci.”

The order is instantly obeyed; whoever this man is, he carries both rank and respect. Pierre bows and disappears, not without casting a suspicious glance in Alexander’s direction.

“You must be Hamilton,” the man continues, still in French; in the moment, it does not occur to Alexander to pretend not to understand.

“Oui, monsieur…” Alexander answers, guarded.

“Baron Friedrich Wilhelm Ludolf Gerhard Augustin von Steuben,” the man smiles, showing his teeth. He takes another bite of the apple, and Alexander feels cornered as a fox, hounds circling.

A cold sweat prickles at his back, under Washington’s shirt; he spares a desperate thought to wonder if he is to be introduced to all of Washington’s aides in such a manner, threatened and hunted and worn down until he gives up and simply re-chains himself to the wall.

“I am Colonel Hamilton, yes,” he says.

“Our…visitor,” Von Steuben prods.

“From your knowledge of my name, monsieur, you have more than demonstrated that you know the details of my position and status,” Alexander retorts, still in French.

The words roll off his tongue naturally, thanks to Mother and years with Monsieur Montagne. Still, the very use of the language casts him back to the attic room at the Grange, to Mother’s house in Christiansted, before they’d lost it; the memories only serve to unsettle him further.

“And you are from—no, you are not from Scotland, that much is obvious. Huguenot, oui?” Von Steuben pushes off from the cabinets, standing upright; he strides towards Alexander, looming, and peers at him sharply. “And common, yes.”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” Alexander forces out, stiffening.

“Ah,” Von Steuben laughs. “Sensitive, are you? No matter. Your French is passable.”

 _It's better than yours,_ Alexander wants to say, stung.

“His Excellency has described your…situation only to the most senior officers in his circle. My Pierre knows, of course, and the guards outside know enough to cut you down if you should flee. But he has taken great pains to preserve your safety and reputation,” Von Steuben says conversationally, stepping back from his looming position and raking his eyes up and down Alexander’s form.

Alexander draws his head up, minutely; Von Steuben chuckles and reaches out to clap his shoulder, far too familiarly; it is such a shock that Alexander takes a stumbled step back, reaching behind himself blindly to avoid tripping over the hearth.

“I can see what he sees in you, boy,” he says, then, and the epithet rankles Alexander’s skin even as the words rattle in his mind.

“I beg your pardon, monsieur,” Alexander manages.

“His Excellency, of course. Young Mr. Laurens was quite determined to slit your throat and slip you off the horse when no one was looking, and it was all His Excellency could do to stay his hand,” Von Steuben continues, taking another critical glance at Alexander’s face. “You may wish to avoid Laurens, really. But back to the crux of the matter. His Excellency has ordered that you be treated with respect; he has even stabled your gelding alongside his own.”

 _Gulliver,_ Alexander thinks, and a rush of relief fills his throat. It is far too sentimental for wartime, of course; he swallows it away.

“I am teaching the men drills,” Von Steuben goes on. “And, you see, I swore on my mother’s grave not to learn the tongue of those dirty English bastards. I could work with you, even with that accent of yours—Caribbean, is it not?—ah, yes, I can see that in your eyes,” he chuckles. “Calm yourself, boy, I will not hold it against you. His Excellency does not speak French; he will be none the wiser. As I was saying, I could work with you. Come out to the training field, when you are ready.”

“And…do what, monsieur? Help to train the rebel army? I think not,” Alexander manages, affronted. “I would never betray my King in such a manner.”

Von Steuben just claps Alexander’s shoulder again, looking amused.

“His Excellency warned me that you would say that, of course. You may stay inside and stare at the walls, should you prefer,” he says easily. “The offer stands; when you are ready.”

Von Steuben finishes his apple with a crunch, tossing the core over Alexander’s head and into the fire. He turns on his heel and strides away.

Alexander swallows his outrage and climbs quickly up the staircase to his room, his moment’s peace thoroughly forgotten. He puts Von Steuben’s peculiar mixture of jovial banter and traitorous propositions aside and forces his thoughts back to English as he sit back down on his now-familiar bed.

The rest of the day passes in unbearable boredom, and the day after, and the day after that.

Neither Mrs. Washington nor the General visit; the serving girl explains, when Alexander is finally weak enough to ask, that they’ve been called away on business.

His first week in captivity slips away, too slowly and too fast at once. By the fifth day, after hours of standing at the window and watching the honor guard on their patrol shifts, he thinks he could manage the timing to escape without being seen—but for the fact that the honor guard presents only the first obstacle in a camp full of bloodthirsty rebel soldiers.

He retreats to his bed in defeat.

Finally, on the morning of the eighth day, when the pain in his arm has receded to an ever-present ache, Alexander wakes to a knock on the door.

  
  
  



	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My huge thanks to [herowndeliverance](http://archiveofourown.org/users/atheilen) for cleaning up my mess with eternal patience. Sorry about all the commas!!

 

“Colonel Hamilton?”

It is Washington. Of course it is—who else could it be? Once again, he does not wait for Alexander’s response; a moment after knocking, he simply opens the door and strides in. Alexander has barely enough time to stand up in a facsimile of attention, though his broken arm remains bound to his chest by the sling.

Washington stops short when he sees Alexander’s stance.

Alexander hopes, viciously, that he is caught off guard.

“Good morning, Colonel,” Washington says, finally, clasping his own hands behind his back.

“Good morning,” Alexander responds curtly, staring straight ahead. He refuses to cave and add an honorific this time; he is not a soldier in this man’s God-forsaken disgrace of an army, after all.

Facing the wall as he is, Alexander cannot see Washington’s reaction; he forces himself to wait silently instead, his jaw locked into place.

“How are you faring?” Washington asks finally, stepping forward into Alexander’s peripheral vision.

Alexander can think of dozens of ways to answer, each more biting than the last; but he’d promised Mrs. Washington, after all, and the last time he’d shouted and then hadn’t had a visitor for eight days. “Adequately,” he clips out.

“I am glad to hear it,” Washington replies, equally measured. “I have come neither to argue nor to apologize, Colonel, though I do hope you will consent to putting our previous conversation behind us.”

Alexander has no intention of doing anything of the sort. He’s had a week to consider his choices, after all.

“If you feel well enough to walk,” Washington continues, “I had thought that you might wish to accompany me for a turn around the camp.”

And for all of the scenarios Alexander has imagined over the last long, empty days, he’d never considered this one; his prepared remarks on loyalty and honor fall off the back of his tongue, crowding down his throat, until all he can manage is an embarrassingly bewildered, “A walk?”

“Yes, Colonel.”

“With you?”

“I am afraid so,” Washington answers, and there’s a touch of humor in his voice, enough that Alexander breaks position and looks up at him without meaning to.

“I…all right,” Alexander manages, his legs itching with eager restlessness at the very idea. “Thank you. Sir.”

“It is the least I can do.” Washington dips his head at Alexander, briefly, and then eyes him up and down. “Shoes, stockings, and a coat, then? Come with me, Colonel.”

Washington does not say please; just as he does not knock. He does not wait for Alexander’s assent—he simply assumes the world will move as he directs. Without another word, he turns, ducking to fit his head and broad shoulders through the doorway. He strides out of the room at a fast enough clip that Alexander must hasten to follow, stretching muscles that have lain unused since his imprisonment.

They traverse the hallway and descend using the front stairs, emerging into a similar corridor below; Alexander hasn’t dared to wander since that first encounter with the Baron in the kitchens, and his skin prickles uncomfortably with each new step he takes.

Washington continues, each of his booted footsteps echoing twice as loud as one of Alexander’s, and pays no heed to how Alexander falls behind. He draws up short at a nondescript door and raps twice, briskly. “Burr?”

“Come in, Your Excellency,” comes the response—in the same voice that had dared to scold Washington, all those nights ago—and Washington opens the door and crosses the threshold with a small, beckoning nod at Alexander.

The room is larger than Alexander had expected. It’s dominated by a sizable oak desk, covered with stacks of parchment and bound pamphlets. Despite the sheer volume of paper, each stack’s edges are aligned with military precision. Bookshelves line the wall to Alexander’s left, with each volume neatly shelved at the same depth as its compatriots. A bed tucked in the far right corner is, of course, made; Alexander thinks of his own bed in his cell upstairs, sheets and blankets askew, and the faint sense of unease in his belly swells to something more. Something heavier.

“Your Excellency,” Burr says, then, his tone unforgiving; it jerks Alexander’s attention away from the perfectly straight line of stamps and sealing wax on the sideboard, and he beholds the man for the first time, smaller and darker and younger than he’d imagined.

Burr stands stiffly at attention, and in the moment before Washington breaks the silence, his eyes meet Alexander’s—stone cold and threatening, _five, with my own knife_ —and suddenly it is all Alexander can do to hold his ground, to neither step back nor leap upon Burr and rend him limb from limb.

 _You have allowed yourself to be distracted, you fool; they killed your men and they will kill you, they’ve ruined your reputation and all hopes of a future,_ Alexander berates himself, keeping his eyes focused on Burr with all his might.

“Good morning, Colonel,” Washington says, though Alexander is hardly listening, cursing himself as he is for having blithely followed Washington into the lion’s den. “Have you made the acquaintance of Colonel Hamilton?”

“I confess I have not yet had the…pleasure,” Burr says. “Aaron Burr.”

He speaks slowly, his words deliberate and weighted by the promise of future pain unfulfilled; Alexander raises his chin before replying.

“Alexander Hamilton.”

Burr inclines his head, minutely.

A second ticks past, then two. They hold position.

Washington coughs, clearly not immune to the frisson of tension in the air. Burr is the first to react, moving his gaze smoothly from Alexander to his commander.

“Hamilton here has no clothing suitable for going out of doors,” Washington says. “Might you or one of the aides have something that would suit—boots, stockings, a coat?”

“For going out of doors, Your Excellency.”

“Yes, Colonel.”

“Are you sure that would be wise, Your Excellency,” Burr returns, keeping his tone even and yet injecting it with pointed judgment all the same.

“It can hardly be worse than the last time we were out of doors together, if that is your fear, Colonel,” Washington answers, crossing his arms. “The guard will be present, of course, and Colonel Hamilton has given his word not to make any attempt at escape.”

 _I haven’t,_ Alexander wants to protest, and if it were only the two of them—if Burr were not there, staring—he would do so vehemently. _I promised your wife I would not harm you and I promised her to stay inside and I promised God I would earn and keep my honor, I haven’t promised you a thing—_

“Haven’t you, Colonel?” Washington turns, expectant, trapping Alexander between his words and Burr’s dark, assessing eyes. There is nothing for it but to agree.

“I give you my word,” Alexander manages, pulling his gaze to Washington. The promise settles over him like a fetter, binding, and after a long moment he can see Burr nod out of the corner of his eye.

“If that is Your Excellency’s wish, the…Colonel…may have use of whatever is mine,” Burr says, deceptively mild; at an appreciative nod from Washington, he breaks from his posture to turn to the trunk at the foot of his immaculate bed. In a matter of moments, he has produced clean stockings and a polished set of brown leather boots, and he holds them out in Alexander’s direction.

Alexander thinks, briefly, of calling the whole thing off; Burr is a murderer, on top of being a traitor to the crown. He slaughtered five of Alexander’s men while they slept. Surely no walk could be worth accepting Burr’s forced generosity; no breath of fresh air could be worth treading in Burr’s boots. Would it not, instead, be a betrayal of all Alexander stands for—what his men stood for?

 _Or it is nothing, a small concession, a walk, to maintain your health and sanity despite the confines of rebel captivity,_ a separate part of Alexander’s mind thinks, the memory of a week wasted in silent, empty solitude too fresh too forget.

Alexander takes the garments, careful not to let their hands touch.

“Go on,” Washington directs, gesturing at one of the chairs in front of Burr’s desk; Alexander sits,  and goes through the awkward and agonizing process of pulling the stockings on with one hand. He thinks he will scream, despite himself, if either of the rebels tries to help.

The boots are next, and easier, Burr’s legs and feet being slightly larger than Alexander’s own. He stands then, much more properly attired but still looking the fool thanks to Washington’s shirt billowing around his shoulders.

“Good,” Washington adds, as if Alexander needs his approval; Alexander is almost affronted, but for the fact that Burr is shifting, pulling at his sleeves, and—no—he has taken off his coat in a few practiced motions, and holds the damn blue thing out to Alexander—

“No,” Alexander steps back, shaking his head, knowing that he’s putting his weakness on display for both Burr and the General but unable to stop himself.

“You would rather freeze, Colonel?” Burr asks, challenging.

It must be a test, a trap laid to lure Alexander into treason. He glares at Burr and clips out a response. “I would rather die.”

“Dying is easy, son,” Washington interjects, mildly, from his position at Alexander’s side. He reaches out and takes Burr’s coat in one hand, holding it in Alexander’s direction. “It is living with our choices, God’s will, and the twists of fate that presents the greater challenge to our mettle; you would do well to remember that. Put on the coat.”

It is just enough of a scolding that Alexander’s face burns hot. He doesn’t move.

“I may not be holding a pistol to your back, and indeed I do not desire to do so,” Washington continues, tone still measured but a flicker of irritation in his eyes. “But that was an order, Hamilton; if you should instead wish to end this endeavor, you may return to the confines of your room.”

When Alexander excuses it to himself later, he will use that threat—of confinement, of solitude, of another week of emptiness—to justify what comes next. For—God help him—he moves forward in acceptance and allows Washington to hold it open for him like a child, sliding his good arm into the still-warm sleeve and draping the other side over his sling.

“Better,” Washington says, and it’s almost enough to send Alexander back upstairs. “Let us walk. You have my gratitude for your generosity, Colonel.” He tips his head in Burr’s direction, and once again leaves without waiting for a reply—such is the luxury of leadership, Alexander thinks bitterly. He hurries after, escaping from Burr’s bedroom without a single additional glance at the man.

If Burr says anything in their wake, Alexander doesn’t hear it.

Washington strides down the hallway and through a large wooden door, and then there they are—outside. The fresh air bursts triumphantly into Alexander’s lungs, and he is momentarily blinded by the sun and halted by the chilled breath of wind on his cheeks. It is December, now, unless Alexander has faltered in his reckoning of days, and it is cold, for all that they are leagues further south than Scotland.

Two honor guards fall in a few yards behind them, and two more guards step in ahead; Alexander draws next to Washington’s elbow and keeps pace, his muscles extending and retracting in an aching but welcome reminder that he has hardly moved for the last week.

“I had thought we could walk a circuit, and perhaps visit the stables. Your Gulliver would appreciate a familiar face, I am sure,” Washington says, settling his tricorn hat more solidly upon his head and turning to regard Alexander. “If you are amenable, Colonel.”

It is such a blatant contradiction that Alexander—who despite his tutor’s best efforts and his years of practice at obedience in the Army remains only half-able to bite his tongue on the best of days—cannot help but push back in response. “I thought it was an order.”

Washington laughs. “No, Colonel, but your point is made. You must concede the sense of my direction, however, just as there was sense in your orders for me to leave my own garments behind in the woods.”

“Fine,” Alexander says begrudgingly. “Sir.”

Washington nods in response and they walk in silence for a time. Alexander relishes the time to stretch; even enjoys the burn of the cold air in his chest and the occasional, painful reminders of his broken arm when they traverse particularly rough terrain.

They are skirting the rebel camp; there are tents in the distance, through a layer of trees, but Alexander is nowhere near close enough to count how many. He wonders if Washington has designed the walk as such, to prevent Alexander, an enemy, from glimpsing the true size or nature of the rebels’ winter quarters. Alexander would do the same, if their positions were reversed.

They walk for around ten minutes, until Alexander’s face and hands have started to go numb from the chill and he is angrily grateful for the rebel coat he wears. Finally, they come over a ridge and in sight of the stable; it is a low, flat building that cannot house more than a dozen stalls. A muddied paddock surrounds it on either side, a few horses grazing and stomping their feet to ward off the cold.

And there—the familiar brown gelding, with a bright white blaze from forelock to nose. As they approach the paddock fence (Alexander taking no care to keep the mud off of Burr’s boots), Gulliver sees him and trots forward from the other side with a loud, aggrieved whicker.

“He’s been well looked after,” Washington says, as Alexander holds up his hands for Gulliver’s whuffing inspection.

It is clear he has, at that; Alexander gives the horse a surveying glance and can immediately tell he’s maintained his weight and been recently brushed.

“Thank you, sir,” Alexander says, formally, as Gulliver finally consents to his affection. His coat is warm under Alexander’s touch, and it’s the first (and most) familiar thing that Alexander has felt since being dragged into this godforsaken camp.

Alexander allows himself a single, long moment to close his eyes, scratching behind Gulliver’s ears, and releases him with a pat to his neck. Gulliver noses at his shoulder when he turns away, but he does not falter in his stride.

Washington looks surprised at Alexander’s speed, but makes no objection, and quickly matches his pace as he walks away from the paddock. (Gulliver objects, vociferously, and though it pains him, Alexander does not turn around.)

“I’ve added him to my personal stable,” Washington says, as they crest the hill again. “I cannot guarantee he will not be ridden, or see battle, but I will make every effort to return him to you in good condition.”

His tone is sincere, and it is clear he has thought this through; Alexander has not forgotten Washington’s actions when their roles were reversed. He’d curried and watered Gulliver as his own.

For that, perhaps, Alexander allows him a minute longer before responding. But he cannot let it lie, cannot walk away, cannot ignore it—for Washington had said _return._

“I appreciate the care you have taken, sir,” Alexander begins. “You say—return him to me.”

“Yes, Colonel,” Washington nods, furrowing his brow.

“You say it as though my life is not forfeit,” Alexander continues. “My position is abundantly clear; I will hang, and I shall hardly have the ability to care for my horse from the afterlife, regardless of his condition. There is no need to use your platitudes to spare my feelings, General.”

From the look it Washington’s eyes, it is hardly what he had expected Alexander to say. He stops walking, causing the honor guard to automatically fan out into a circle around them, just beyond earshot. “Son—”

“I am not your son, General,” Alexander says, tiredly, and turns to face Washington head on.

Washington nods in assent. “Hamilton. I—apologize for any confusion, or if my intentions were unclear. You will not hang, or be shot, or meet your demise while in my camp.”

“Out of it, then, if I am to be tried by magistrate—”

“No.”

“Then _why,”_ Alexander hisses. “You could have killed me, left me there, thrown me into a prison camp and forgotten my existence—instead you trap me here in shackles and leave me to rot under your watch—did I mistreat you so, to warrant such a fate? There is no use for an imprisoned officer in your camp, and this cannot endure. Am I to be held indefinitely, without charge?”

“Why? You were simply an officer, doing your job; and yet you could have shot me, and chose not to,” Washington says, slowly. “And you—I will not make a mockery of your soldiers’ fates by saying that I am grateful for our encounter, no. But in our interactions, I have found again some necessary aspects of myself that I had…forgotten. It was not purposeful on your part, I know, but I find myself indebted nonetheless. I will not see you harmed.”

Washington speaks with the confidence of a wealthy man and the immutable power of a leader who walks among gods. The truth of it rings in Alexander’s ears; he believes him.

It is not enough.

“You speak in kindnesses to avoid honesty,” Alexander continues, provoking. “If I am not to be harmed, am I to simply wither in chains?”

“Listen. _Please_ ,” Washington intones, running a hand over his face. His voice is quieter, a counterpoint to Alexander’s steadily-rising words. “I made a choice. You must forgive me for assuming that a young man of your intellect would prefer life to having his throat slit in the mud.”

And then Alexander realizes.

“You don’t know,” he says, slow, matching his volume to Washington’s. “You…you broke my arm, sent me to the ground, brought me here--and you cannot even explain why, because you do not know.”

Washington does not deny it; indeed, he does not say anything at all.

 


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to [herowndeliverance](http://archiveofourown.org/users/atheilen)!!

Alexander spins on his heel and strides away, ignoring Washington and the honor guard entirely. He won’t run away, no, but neither will he stand and listen to Washington’s excuses—

“Alexander,” Washington calls. The intimate shock of the syllables stops Alexander in his tracks and sends a shiver down his spine.

“Look at me,” Washington orders, closer now. He reaches out and grasps the sleeve of the borrowed rebel coat, his hand warm through the fabric despite the winter chill.

Alexander resists a flinch with all of his might and meets Washington’s eyes instead, challenging.

“You are not wrong, son,” Washington says—and there it is again, that damned word, and Alexander opens his mouth to retort but Washington’s hand tightens on his good arm in warning. “It was not a rational decision, perhaps, and it was neither well-considered nor particularly kind. You may blame me for that—blame a weak old man who no longer wishes to witness senseless death. But I understand your situation, and, though we may be enemies, ask only that you trust in my good intentions.”

“And how exactly,” Alexander grits out, “do you presume to understand my situation, sir?”

Washington looks at him in frank surprise, at last releasing his sleeve.

“I…beg your pardon, Colonel. I had thought the stories of my….failures would have reached your camps. To serve as fodder to demonstrate my inadequacy, if nothing else,” Washington says, after a beat. “No matter. It is hardly a secret. When I was your age, I had command of a militia unit in the West.”

He takes a breath, his exhale visible in the frigid air.

“I tried to ambush the French. At the time it seemed wise; they were a small detachment--it seemed an easy target, but in my inexperience I...led my men to ruin. Those who survived were later captured, including myself.”

 _Our two situations could not be more dissimilar,_ Alexander wants to say, but finds himself speechless. _You do not know me at all._

“I do not presume to know you,” Washington continues, as if he’d heard Alexander’s thoughts. “But I can empathize with your circumstances, if you will allow it. If you will consent to a…truce, so to speak.”

He looks at Alexander, the question frank and genuine on his face.

Alexander inhales sharply, scenes of the last week running unbidden through his mind. He thinks of that first moment in the woods, when his gun had refused to be still in his hand and he had prayed under his breath that his eyes deceived him, that this was no General but only a common rebel, someone to be quickly arrested and forgotten about.

He thinks of when Washington had said his name for the first time, calm and steady even as Alexander’s heart stuttered to a stop. He thinks of the tent, of sleeping with Washington’s breath hot on the back of his neck, and of waking in horror to his men’s screams.

If he agrees to a truce—if he accepts Washington’s apparent good will and resigns himself to  captivity and placid cooperation with the rebels—his reputation will never recover. Those in New York and Scotland alike will mock his weaknesses and the ease with which he surrendered his principles.

But has his future not already been destroyed, in his foolish attempt to capture Washington? Has his dignity not already been lost? And if he does not agree, what lies before him, then? More hours of silence, chained to the wall? More shouting matches in which much is said but nothing is changed? More hours of lying alone, guilt churning through his mind?

Four years ago, he could have continued to fight. He could have continued to sit in his cell with hackles raised and poison in his belly, waiting for any opportunity to lash out at Washington. Four years ago, he’d stalked out of Uncle John’s employ and never looked back. He’d survived—more than that, he’d built himself anew.

But now—everything he has built has been razed to rubble, and the sweat and blood he has earned on the battlefield has been washed away by his enemy’s gentle hands.

It is as if he has been climbing a mountain, fighting through each steep upward step, the peak shrouded in fog before him—and just as the clouds have lifted, he has lost his footing upon the rocks, only a few steps from the top, and tumbled unstoppably downward in a cascade of bone-shattering agony, the summit lost to him forever.

What choice is left to him, fallen as he is?

“I will,” Alexander says finally, the weight of it thick on his tongue.

“Very good,” Washington answers. “Then let this be the last time we argue upon this subject,” he continues, optimistic, and catches Alexander’s palm in his hand.

Even the simplest of gestures can feel momentous, Alexander thinks, taking it; they shake, their palms warm and dry.

Washington smiles. “You have my word that you will be treated with the same honor and courtesy that you showed to me,” he says, releasing Alexander’s hand. “And when the day comes, you will be released to the British.”

“A privileged hostage,” Alexander says, resigned. He dare not explain his background to the General. His position is precarious enough without the rebels realizing that he is a worthless bastard with no one across the ocean praying for his release. It is bad enough that Von Steuben suspects.

“If you like,” Washington says mildly. “Now, son, I believe we had intended a walk?”

Alexander grits his teeth into silence and nods, tight but proper. They continue walking, bracing themselves against the cold. For nearly three-quarters of an hour, Washington makes small talk about the camp and its inhabitants, showing nearly as much of a gift for the harmless exposition as his wife. He says nothing of military import, no; he simply points out each species of tree and  plant that creep beneath their boots and pauses to kneel and pet each and every camp dog that perks up its tail at his approach.

They finally return to the headquarters after Washington has exchanged well-wishes with at least two dozen of his men. Alexander hesitates behind Washington as he strides through the door and into the now-bustling ground floor hallway, causing the sort of ruckus that is entirely appropriate for a returning commander but far less so for a luckless captive. Servants and aides scatter in his path, pausing in doorways to curtsy and salute.

Alexander goes unnoticed behind him; a casualty, perhaps, of the coat.

“Burr,” Washington calls, almost jovial. Alexander follows him down the hall towards Burr’s office, dread pooling in the pit of his stomach.

“I must go, Colonel,” Washington continues, turning to Alexander. “There is much to be done in the camp. Return Colonel Burr’s belongings, please, and I’ll instruct him—ah, Colonel,” he pauses; Burr has opened his door and stands on the threshold, bowing. “Please see to it that Colonel Hamilton has everything he might require. Food, and—books, perhaps?”

He looks at Alexander, appraisingly.

“Books would be welcome, sir,” Alexander manages, heart throbbing faster under Burr’s dark gaze.

“Books, then. And perhaps writing paper and a quill—when I return, Colonel, I will be glad to post a letter to your family on your behalf.”

 _That won’t be necessary, it’s not as if I—_ Alexander wants to say. “My thanks, sir,” he says instead.

“Of course, Your Excellency,” Burr chimes in, soft; with that, Washington departs, striding down the hall and into another, closed room with all the confidence of a born leader.

In his wake, Alexander is left staring at Burr; they stand in the hallway, in full view of the servants and staff that have begun to pace again behind them.

“I trust the garments suited you well.” Burr’s voice is unforgiving.

“You have my gratitude,” Alexander returns; he pulls off Burr’s coat, standing straighter and refusing to glance around to determine if they have an audience.

The boots and stockings are next; Alexander sets his jaw against the humiliation as he bends awkwardly to remove them one-handed, all but forced to prostrate himself at Burr’s mercy. He finally steps out and stands, barefoot and oddly bereft, meeting Burr’s eyes and refusing to grant him satisfaction by looking away.

“Oh. I had forgotten. You may keep those, of course,” Burr says, nose wrinkled in distaste. There’s a cruel underbite to his tone, the carelessly scathing voice of a privileged son assured of his place in the family. “I will bring the other supplies by your…room, when there is time.”

Alexander clenches his good fist, willing away the rage, and forces himself to respond only by picking up the offending, muddied items and stalking away. He refuses to give the murderer the pleasure of a reaction.

 

—-

 

For all of his antipathy, Burr does appear some hours later with a stack of papers and slim, bound pamphlets in his hands. He enters Alexander’s room without knocking and drops the stack unceremoniously on the bed, looking about the confined space in disgust. His eyes pause on the manacle, and something twists at the corner of his mouth.

Alexander, for his part, is sitting half-propped against the wall; he refuses to let even his fingers twitch in acknowledgment of Burr’s appearance.

“Enjoy,” Burr says dryly. He moves to leave, but stops himself with a hand on the doorknob, as if struck by a half-formed idea.

“If you were on our side, and thus had leave to ask them, most of the aides would tell you that I…hesitate,” Burr starts, his eyes seeking out Alexander’s, dark and deep. “That I took too long to commit to the war, or that my character does not lend itself to fits of passion.”

He takes a breath, slow.

“There are, of course, advantages to weighing one’s options; I rather believe that a series of rash decisions has landed you here. A…fatal weakness, one could say.”

“Not so fatal, if the General’s orders are to be obeyed,” Alexander parries, mouth tight.

“You are right, of course,” Burr nods, an odd smile crossing his features. “But that only gives me time, you see, Colonel. Enough time to plan for each exigency. Enough time to be able to stand here and inform you with confidence that if you make any attempts at escape or sabotage, or attempt to so much as harm a hair on the General’s head...I will shoot you in the gut and leave the wound to fester until you die, in greater pain than you can possibly imagine. Orders be damned.”

Burr finishes in a conversational tone, almost lightly. His smile gives way to a hint of teeth as he turns to leave.

It is no more or less than Alexander had expected; neither Mrs. Washington nor the Baron had threatened him with death, yet, but it would be unreasonable to expect that all of Washington’s camp would be so kind to an intruder.

Yet something in Burr’s delivery—something in the look in his eye and the turn of his lip—burrows beneath Alexander’s skin with a sharp pinch, like a phantom bullet to the side, and refuses to let go.

 

——

 

The pamphlets Burr brought are, of course, disgustingly revolutionary and treasonous in nature. Alexander can tell as much simply from their covers—the heralding of the colonies as states, the rebel pseudonyms, the pompous subtitles that spell out the need for revolt.

He makes it through one more mind-numbingly empty day before he resigns himself to opening the first one. _Common Sense_ , it says; he’d heard of it in the early days of the war, of course, but would not have been caught dead in his barracks with a copy.

It cannot be worse than boredom, at least.

 

——

 

The winter truly sets in a few days later; there is a flurry of snow one afternoon, and the following morning Alexander wakes to an intricate lacing of frost on his window. A chill has settled into the house, palpable even through the warmth that Alexander’s shared chimney provides. His arm aches fiercely in the sling, as though the very cracks in his bone have frozen over.

Washington raps on Alexander’s door late that morning, just as Alexander has finished reading the rebel’s declaration for what must surely be the twentieth time.

He does not wait to enter, of course, but the knock provides Alexander with just enough warning to stand politely, setting the papers to the side with his good arm.

“Good morning, sir,” he says; they have a truce, after all.

“Good morning, Colonel,” Washington says, looking faintly surprised; he’s in full uniform, as is typical, though he has something woolen and brown draped over one arm and his tricorn hat held gently in the other hand. “How are you?”

“…Tolerable, thank you, sir,” Alexander replies.

“I see you have been reading,” Washington gestures at the papers on the bed. “I’ve told the men that you are to have full access to the library. You need only request more, when you have finished.”

The General sounds a bit stiff and formal, as if he, too, is unsure of their relationship in this new, post-handshake world. There is hope in his voice, too, though Alexander cannot tell for what.

“I appreciate your generosity,” Alexander says; Washington nods in response.

“I came to offer another walk, though I do not wish to interrupt your studies, Colonel,” Washington continues, trailing off slightly.

As awkward as it is sure to be, Alexander cannot deny the allure of another outing; he has kept to his room over the last few days, dissuaded from exploring the house after his encounters with Burr. His legs are itching for movement.

“It would be a welcome interruption, sir,” Alexander says, “though the weather seems to have become less hospitable overnight.”

“Indeed it has, Colonel. I did not wish to presume your response, but I brought this, that you might be more comfortably outfitted,” Washington replies, setting his hat down on Alexander’s side table and holding up the brown woolen garment with both hands. It is a coat, heavy and thick, in a proportion closer to Alexander’s than Washington’s own. More importantly, perhaps, it is the plain and unassuming color of mud.

Alexander swallows.

“I hope it will suit. It is yours—no need to return it,” Washington finishes.

“Thank you, sir,” Alexander says, reaching for it tentatively; Washington gives his sling a pointed look and shakes the fabric in his hands, clearly expecting Alexander to once more step into it like a child.

 _Tu ne peux pas combattre tout, Alexandre,_ his mother had always said, wiping away blood from the latest split lip he’d earned against the other boys. _Pick your battles. Il faut que tu apprennes à prendre du recul._

So Alexander turns and accepts Washington’s tacit, forced assistance, slipping the coat on. It fits perfectly.

 

——

 

They go to the stables, first; Alexander lingers a few minutes with Gulliver, while Washington steps away to see to his own steed.

“I meant to ask, Colonel, if you had written a letter for your family. A messenger leaves tomorrow—I am glad to have it sent along,” Washington says, as they depart, the frozen remnants of dead leaves crunching beneath their boots. “To your uncle, perhaps?”

He casts a glance in Alexander’s direction; gentle though it is, his gaze burns on Alexander’s skin.

 _Mrs. Washington told him_ , Alexander thinks, discomfort bubbling in his throat, _of course._ His face burns and he bristles reflexively, imagining the look of pity that must have crossed over Washington’s face when he heard.

For all that heritage matters in His Majesty’s Army, Alexander has managed to push it aside for years. His superiors have had more to worry about than the status of a single Lieutenant Colonel, and his subordinates have not dared to ask. For Washington to press him now—

But Washington has continued to walk, pace normal; and they have a truce, after all. Alexander swallows and forces himself to listen and think before he replies. There is no suspicion in Washington’s voice; no shifting of his shoulders—by all accounts, he is sincere.

“I am afraid,” Alexander says, careful to maintain his gait and appear unconcerned despite the flush he can feel rising in his cheeks, “that there is no one to whom I could address such a missive, though I appreciate your…consideration.”

Washington nods, pulling his gaze away from Alexander to look ahead at the tree line, where the barren branches now glisten with frost.

“I apologize. I did not mean to touch upon a sensitive matter, so—Colonel. I fear I have offended you with the offer, quite contrary to my intentions.”

“It is nothing,” Alexander raises his chin. He knows Washington would let it lie, but he cannot bear the idea of the General and Mrs. Washington sitting alone by their fireside at night discussing the poor misfortunes of their lonely redcoat captive. “The lack of such correspondence, though regrettable, is in this case due to an ideological disagreement which can be neither settled nor revoked.”

“The war?” Washington turns to him with curiosity as they crest the hill.

“Hardly; my relations are as loyal to the King as I myself, and pose no objection to military service,” Alexander answers; Washington hums in acknowledgment, though something of a question remains in his tone. “But they have—he has tied his lot to slavery, a crime against God and humankind alike, and chooses cowardice and complacence over what is right.”

For an instant, Washington stills; he resumes walking as though nothing has happened. It must have simply been a misstep, Alexander thinks, and pays it no more mind.

“I see,” Washington responds, a beat later. “An...intractable problem, to be sure.”

They walk the rest of the way in silence, punctuated only by Washington’s typical greetings to his men. Alexander is lost in thought about Uncle John, a feeling not unlike disappointment rising in his chest. He does not presume to know Washington’s thoughts.

 

——

 

One week turns into two, then three; soon it is the new year, an occasion that Alexander marks by standing at his window and watching the celebratory fires of the rebel soldiers as they flare through the night. Through the glass, he can faintly hear the drinking songs they’re singing—the same songs he’d heard from sailors on the piers in Glasgow, all those years ago.

Burr continues to bring him books and papers, dropping them off with only a silent glare of warning. Alexander marks his days by reading, and takes small delight in the way Burr’s eyebrows rise in disbelief at his pace.

Mrs. Washington occasionally drops in to check on his welfare. She brings the doctor back in the last days of December to evaluate Alexander’s arm. After a few excruciating minutes of attempted movement, the diagnosis is simply to continue with the sling for another month at least.

The General, for his part, finds time for a walk every few days. Most of their conversation is inconsequential; he asks after Alexander's health, they pace the inner perimeter of the camp, and they stop by the stables just long enough for Gulliver to mouth Alexander’s hair free of its tie.

At the end one such walk in the first week of January, Washington tilts his head at Alexander as they draw up to the headquarters once again.

“Friedrich—Baron von Steuben, that is, mentioned that you and he had become acquainted, some time ago,” Washington says, out of the blue.

“Yes, sir,” Alexander affirms; he doesn’t add that it was during his one and only independent visit to the kitchens, as since Burr’s threat and the Baron’s words of warning about the other aide—Lawrence, was it?—he hasn’t felt inclined to risk further confrontation.

“He said you speak French,” Washington continues. “And that he had offered work, if you would have it; something to fill your days, to pass the time outside—”

“Indeed,” Alexander interrupts, letting his bitterness show. “But such an idea is unthinkable, as you well know; unless you and he have forgotten that I am loyal to His Majesty and not your rebellion.”

“I have hardly forgotten, lad,” Washington says mildly. “Mind your tone.”

He pauses on the stone portico, clearly waiting for Alexander’s obedient acknowledgment.

“My apologies, sir,” Alexander says stiffly, willing himself to stifle his resentment.

“As I was saying, the Baron’s idea is sound. You would enjoy much more liberty than you do at present, and your attendance at his drills would not shift the outcome of the war,” Washington holds up a hand to forestall Alexander’s objection. “Hear me out, Colonel. We have enough men that have mastered French—it is not uncommon, after all, and the Baron has certainly managed fine until now. The Baron was not suggesting that you betray your ideals or become complicit in our action; only offering an opportunity. The drills will occur with or without your assistance, and it cannot truly be a betrayal if your aid makes no difference to our cause.”

He pauses, perhaps realizing the offensive nature of his final phrase.

“I do not mean to disparage your abilities, Colonel; only to say, of course, that another man will attend the Baron if you do not. Your aid would be valuable in that it would allow you a change of scenery, but you can be at ease if you are concerned about treason.”

Washington’s logic, basic as it is, does make some sense. And Alexander does long to get outside; to move, to speak to men on a daily basis instead of simply enduring Burr’s glares—but the blow that volunteering to help the rebels would deal to Alexander’s already-fractured dignity would be too great to bear.

 _Your loyalty to the King must outweigh your selfish desires,_ he reminds himself. _You must endure it; you promised._

“I…cannot,” Alexander says, looking away; his earlier feelings gone from his tone. “I appreciate your reasoning, sir, but absent an order, it is far too dishonorable and disloyal to even consider.”

It slips out without thinking; and he knows it is wrong, instantly, like a knife to the heart. He should not have said such a thing, for Washington is too keen by half to miss it. He should have contained his impulses better; he should have been silent and oh, he should have remembered to _wait_ instead of _want._

“Ah,” Washington says, slowly. “In that case, son, I order you to attend to the Baron, beginning on the morrow.”

Alexander bows his head in acceptance, staring at the gray stone beneath his feet. Washington does not force a response; he simply reaches out and grasps Alexander’s good shoulder, his hand lingering for a moment.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My thanks to [herowndeliverance](http://archiveofourown.org/users/atheilen)!! 
> 
> Sorry for the long wait, everyone -- real life got in the way! But the chapter is twice as long as usual, and rest assured that I fully intend to continue! :)

The Baron’s aide, Pierre, appears at Alexander’s door an hour after dawn the next morning, rapping lazily and waiting for Alexander to answer before entering. Pierre is impeccably dressed in a blue frock coat with red facings, and his shirt and breeches are so purely white that Alexander is abruptly and hideously conscious of his own state. Despite bathing regularly and surrendering his borrowed clothes for laundering once a week, he cannot shake the grease from his hair or drive the musty scent from the room.

“The General directed me to retrieve you,” Pierre starts in French, nose wrinkled. “The drills for the day are to begin in a quarter-hour.”

From his tone, it is clear what he thinks of Alexander’s participation.

“I am ready,” Alexander says quickly, shouldering into his coat.

“Very well,” Pierre sniffs. “In that case, this way.”

Pierre silently leads him outdoors and down the gentle slope in front of the house, turning and walking for nearly a half-mile through the light woods until they come to a clearing where a few dozen men in disheveled rebel uniforms are gathered. A few are making an effort to clean their rifles, kneeling upon the cold ground; the rest stand about joking with their comrades.

These activities cease abruptly when the men notice Pierre and Alexander’s arrival. It is almost comical, Alexander thinks, how the men launch themselves into wobbly lines of formation and straighten their shoulders into attention.

Alexander had known that the rebels were a poor excuse for an army, of course; everyone did. But it is different to see the men in person, boys and grandfathers alike, some so thin they look as though they will break in half under the weight of their rifles.

This scene—this ragtag group in a clearing in the woods—could not be further from Alexander’s own training in the stone courtyards of Scotland’s forts and garrisons. Even in their excuse for formation, the rebels continue to talk amongst themselves; in Alexander’s experience, such disrespect by a new recruit in front of an officer would have ended in the stocks, or worse.

He rarely thinks on that first year he’d spent in the Army before shipping off to war. The initial months had passed in an aching, miserable blur. He’d retreated to his bunk each night, muscles screaming from holding positions on the training ground, and tried to fall asleep before thoughts of loneliness could creep into his head. After that, it had gotten easier—it became clear that war was imminent, and he’d set his mind to promotion. To becoming a leader of men, so that he could return to Scotland with honor he’d earned himself.

 _Not that it matters,_ he reminds himself now, surveying the rebels sourly and pulling his coat tighter around his sling. _You’ve earned only your own ruin._

“Come, Hamilton,” Pierre says, demanding his attention. Pierre strides forward and starts weaving his way through the lines, nudging the men into better posture and adjusting their grip.  Alexander follows awkwardly, unwilling to touch any of the rebels himself. He will translate, but he will not _help._ It is as Washington said—it is not a betrayal to simply restate the Baron’s words in English, when any other man could translate them in Alexander’s stead. Translation is hardly a crime.

Alexander picks up his pace, following Pierre through the lines without comment. He lets himself enjoy the fresh air and the stretch of his muscles, still largely in disuse despite his walks with Washington.

“Bonjour,” Von Steuben calls loudly, striding into the clearing only a few moments later and taking up a position in front of the assembled men. His uniform is as perfectly pressed and polished as that of Pierre, who quickly moves to his side and converses with him lowly in French. Alexander hurries to join them, ignoring the way his stomach twists when he stands and faces the rebel soldiers.

“The Lieutenant Colonel has…joined us, monsieur,” Pierre says, nodding his head in Alexander’s direction.

“Oui, excellent. Hamilton, ça va?” Von Steuben asks, looking distinctly pleased.

“Bien, monsieur, merci,” Alexander answers, feeling the weight of the assembled rebels’ gazes turn upon him as he converses with the Baron.

“Pierre, introduce him to the men, and then we start,” Von Steuben continues, all business, though he spends a long moment looking Alexander up and down, brow cocked. He focuses on the coat and, after a beat, he sends Alexander a knowing wink. Alexander’s cheeks pink in response, but he swallows any reply as Pierre announces him to the gathered soldiers.

After that, the work becomes automatic; Von Steuben runs the men through the most basic of exercises, and Alexander and Pierre translate in turn. Shouldering, marching, simulated fire; cleaning, loading, reloading, executing a smooth retreat.

Von Steuben, Alexander learns quickly, does not shy away from colorful language; in that respect, he is quite the opposite of Washington, who even while facing Alexander’s pistol had not muttered so much as a single curse. Pierre translates Von Steuben’s words without hesitation, appearing to enjoy it; though his command of English grammar is imperfect, he has clearly mastered the language of sailors.

Most of the men, thankfully, appear nonplussed; they have been training under Von Steuben for some months now, after all. Still, Alexander does not dare to risk it himself—he edits the Baron’s words as they fly, pulling out the curses and moderating the tone to as neutral as he can manage.

“Faster! Faster! You move like fucking snails! The redcoats will crush you under their boots!” Von Steuben yells, drumming his cane on the ground.

“Faster,” Alexander manages in English, seeing Pierre smirk out of the corner of his eye. “The enemy will not wait.”

As the minutes run on, Alexander does his best to translate the training commands, as Washington had ordered ( _as you had wanted,_ he cannot help but think, traitorously, _you should not have said anything, you should have been content with your lot and stayed inside_ ).  He shivers in the cold and, despite the pit of guilt in his belly, revels in the feeling of the winter sunshine on his face. Soon, his voice is going hoarse and his back and arm are aching from standing upright, but it is a good ache—an ache of use and motion, one which he cannot help but relish.  All the while, he tries desperately not to think about the actual fact of what these men are training _for._

They will not win, he reminds himself; His Majesty’s Army will crush this pathetic rebellion and restore order to the colonies—restore reason—and these men will return to their farms, hopefully before the year is out.

It falls into a rhythm, after that; the hours slip by scarcely noticed. The first group of men are exchanged for a second, equally untrained.

Finally, Von Steuben orders the second group back into their original formation, eyeing their stances critically until he gives a brusque nod.

“And now, gentlemen, let us pause for luncheon. Dismiss them, Pierre, and meet us inside,” Von Steuben directs. Pierre switches to English with a nod and directs the men, with a few choice words, to be on time for the next morning’s drills.

“Viens, Hamilton,” Von Steuben says, turning away from the dispersing crowd and clapping Alexander on the shoulder. Alexander stiffens without meaning to, but the Baron pays him no mind. “A repast awaits us, and we have earned it, non?”

He steers Alexander into motion, back towards the house.

“You…wish for me to join you, monsieur?” Alexander asks, heartbeat increasing in time with their steps.

“Join _us_ ,” Von Steuben corrects, eyeing Alexander sidelong, “unless you are too shy and wish to hide in your little room upstairs…”

He lets it trail off, his tone purposefully scornful and challenging. Alexander, feeling somewhat more comfortable with Von Steuben after a morning spent reassembling the words flying off the man’s tongue, does not bother to hide his long-suffering sigh.

Von Steuben chuckles, an amused smile pulling at his mouth. “That’s what I thought. You are a little lion, aren’t you? Come along, come along.”

Alexander follows him inside, the warmth of the house a blessed shock after hours in the cold. Von Steuben leads him down the hallway and through the open door of a large dining room; the Baron quickly makes for the table, but Alexander is left standing frozen in the doorway. For Von Steuben had not been lying when he’d said _us._ Alexander is faced with what must be every rebel officer in the headquarters, quite at once.

Washington himself sits at the head of the table, mid-conversation with Burr and another young man, this one graced with a wash of freckles from ear to ear. Washington looks uncommonly pleased, and Alexander fears for a moment that there has been some rebel victory in a battle he hadn’t even known was to occur.

He pushes the thought away—it is winter, after all, and the rebels have shown that they are not in any shape to fight—and quickly steals a glance at the rest of the group.  An unfamiliar man in an officer’s uniform sits at the other end of the table, opposite Washington, surrounded by a few other aides who scarcely look up from their plates. The tableau is complete with the addition of Von Steuben and Pierre, who none-so-gently elbows his way past Alexander and into the room.

“Sit, sit, my boy,” Von Steuben calls in French, drawing the room’s attention abruptly and irrevocably to Alexander’s figure. He gestures at the chair left empty between him and Washington, across from Burr.

Alexander flinches but does as directed, keeping his chin up but avoiding the rebels’ eyes as they track him across the room.

“Merci, monsieur,” he says to Von Steuben, low. He focuses on the steaming bowl of stew before him, vainly hoping that his presence will receive no further attention from those assembled.

“Colonel Hamilton, welcome,” Washington interjects then, of course. Alexander grits his teeth and switches to English, straightening in his seat and meeting the General’s eyes politely.

“Thank you, sir,” Alexander says, willing his hands to still in his lap.

“Please help yourself.” Washington gestures to the stew and the crusts of bread scattered across the tabletop. “We do not stand on formality here, with rations what they are.”

Alexander nods in response, his stomach abruptly reminding him that he’s done more activity in the last four hours than in the last four weeks combined. He takes a spoonful of the stew, and while it’s more broth than anything, really, it is enough to warm his throat and chest.

“How did you find the drills this morning?” Washington continues, after a moment. “I understand that the weather held in your favor, though it snows to the west.”

Alexander swallows and makes to reply, but is interrupted by Von Steuben’s hand on his arm.

“Qu'est ce qu'il dit?” Von Steuben asks, half-teasing. “Have you so soon forgotten your duties, to leave an old man without the words of one of his dearest friends?”

For all that Von Steuben’s question is asked in jest, Alexander is acutely aware that he is caught in the middle, with all ears at his end of the table focused on his response. More likely than not, it is another test—a test of his patience, of his disposition, of his obedience, or of all three.

Washington gives a small, indulgent nod in Alexander’s direction, and he exhales.

“Monsieur, the General asks…comment étaient les exercices ce matin?” he offers first. “The drills went well, sir,” he continues, turning to Washington and scrambling for an appropriate compliment for the enemy. “The Baron has an expansive knowledge of military procedures.”

His interlocutors both nod, satisfied; they exchange a glance that Alexander cannot read.

“Now, tell him his men continue to be incompetent layabouts who smell of manure,” Von Steuben says with a grin, just as Alexander taken a tentative sip from his glass of water. Alexander chokes, hurrying to take another sip and cursing his own reaction.

“The Baron extends his compliments on your men’s abilities,” he attempts, looking to Pierre, who simply waves a hand at Alexander in dismissal, ignoring his dilemma entirely.

Washington seems to approve of the response; Von Steuben, for his part, shoots a pleased smile at Alexander as he turns to Pierre, joining in his conversation with the officer seated at the foot of the table.

“I am glad to hear it,” Washington nods, continuing to eat. “And yourself—I hope it provided a suitable distraction from your quarters.”

“…Indeed, sir,” Alexander says awkwardly, not wishing to admit aloud that he’d as much as asked to help the rebels in his selfish desire to spend time out-of-doors. Burr and the freckled man are still staring him down from across their bowls, after all. “I thank you for your generosity, and your books,” he adds, hoping to change the subject.

“Ah, yes,” Washington smiles, reaching for another piece of bread. “Might I ask what you have read recently?”

Alexander chews his lip for a moment, thinking of how to respond. “Colonel Burr has been kind enough to provide me with several of the more…seminal texts of your cause,” he says, keeping his tone even.

“Has he,” Washington replies drolly, turning his gaze to Burr.

“Indeed, Your Excellency,” Burr responds. “Are we not advised to seek transformation by the renewing of our minds, in pursuit of the Lord’s grace?”

 _Romans 12,_ Alexander thinks instantly, recognizing the words. _Therefore if thine enemy hunger, feed him; if he thirst, give him drink: for in so doing thou shalt heap coals of fire on his head. Be not overcome of evil, but overcome evil with good._

He almost laughs; Burr is hardly sincere, what with his threats of evisceration and constant judgmental glances. And if anything, Alexander is the righteous one in this scenario; the rebels can hardly claim to have the Lord’s support for their insurrection.

Burr’s profession of piety seems to satisfy Washington, though.

“A lofty goal,” the General comments, “Though a misguided one, I am afraid; Colonel Hamilton is a dedicated and noble servant to his King.” He tips his glass in Alexander’s direction, a motion which could be mocking but seems somehow sincere.

Burr hums in acknowledgment. “Be that as it may, sir, I would be remiss if I did not try.”

“As long as you remember that Colonel Hamilton is my guest,” Washington warns, inclining his head at Burr before he turns back to Alexander, a hint of curiosity in his eyes. “If you have read our treatises, Colonel, I would be curious for your thoughts—if you do not mind humoring me.”

Alexander does, of course, mind. He can think of thousands of things that he would rather do than share his opinions on rebel propagandist literature to an audience of rebels themselves. But Washington has held true to his word and Alexander is honor-bound to do the same—they have a truce. He knows he cannot disrespect the man by refusing a reply.

“Please, do tell,” Burr chimes in, then, his tone a deliberate challenge. Washington casts him an admonishing glance.

(The freckled man has been conspicuously silent throughout; something deep in Alexander’s hindbrain takes note, and a cold prickle runs down his spine without warning.)

“I…do not disagree with the logic of some of the arguments, as they are presented,” Alexander says carefully. “However, I cannot reconcile the fundamental divergence between our reality and the premises upon which the arguments are based.”

“Such as?” Washington asks, interested; all eyes are turned to Alexander, now, even those from the unnamed men at the other end of the table.

“I can see how the effects of taxation and government regulations might have felt unbearable to a group of people starting off in a new land,” he continues. “However, to take up arms in protest of such a thing is to blindly ignore centuries of history and foolishly reject the protections and benefits which an experienced government provides. No revolt of this sort has ever been successful, and it is sure to reap only devastation.”

“A reasoned and confident answer,” Washington says, slowly. “But what makes you so certain that ours will not be the first of these revolts to succeed?”

Alexander does not know whether to laugh or cry.

“I mean no disrespect to your experience,” he says instead. “But you have clearly never been to Britain. In Scotland alone, there are still thousands of garrisons full of men, and guns and cannons in numbers beyond your imagination.”

“And you say this from _your_ experience,” a new voice cuts in, dripping poison—it is the freckled man at Burr’s side. He’s set down his spoon in favor of glaring at Alexander, ice in his eyes.

“Laurens,” Washington says mildly.

“Sir,” Laurens returns. “Begging your pardon, but this imposter is about as Scottish as—”

“ _Colonel._ ” Washington, again.

The boy is not cowed.

“Sir,” he says, “sir, it is clear he has lied about everything. You cannot mean to allow him into our confidences, when he should have hung weeks ago like the dirty loyalist basta—”

“You forget yourself, son,” Washington warns, louder. All eyes in the room fly to them, and a violent flush rises on Laurens’ cheeks.

Laurens remains undeterred, however, and flings his gaze around the other men at the table. “And you all have forgotten that there is a British officer in our midst—”

“ _Dismissed,_ ” Washington shouts, voice iron. Alexander flinches with the force of it. Across the table, Laurens surges to his feet, looking mutinous. “Colonel Burr, see him out,” Washington continues.

Burr does so in silence, his hand in a white-knuckled grip on Laurens’ arm. As they exit, Washington exhales loudly and murmurs an apology in Alexander’s direction before shaking his head and standing to refill his tea.

“Well, that was exciting,” Von Steuben breaks in, directing his French to Alexander’s ears alone and sipping from his wine. “Do tell, mon petit lion, what it was that they were roaring about.”

Alexander swallows.

“That man—Laurens—was simply making remarks upon my…background,” he says, low, grateful that Washington cannot understand.

“Ah,” Van Steuben answers with a sage nod. “He lived in Europe, you know, including London—and the boy has an ear for accents. I am not surprised.”

And Alexander probably should not be as honest as he is, next—but Von Steuben has yet to tell anyone else about Alexander’s origins. Beyond light teasing, in fact, he has treated Alexander just the same as he treats Pierre.

“That may be, but I am a Scottish officer. My worth is bound to my position,” Alexander says, voice raw. He cannot help but allow a bit of his frustration and desperation into his tone.

“Is it?” Von Steuben responds. He levels a gaze at Alexander, considering.

“I would not have him set ideas into the General’s head,” Alexander tries.

“Perhaps it is not so bad to state the truth,” Von Steuben returns evenly. “It certainly takes more courage to be honest, non?”

His eyes are piercing, more than they have any right to be; Alexander looks away.

Washington chooses that moment to return to the table, teacup in hand. “Gentlemen,” he says, his composure regained. “Colonel Hamilton, if you do not mind, I would very much enjoy an opportunity to hear the Baron’s thoughts on ways to improve our cavalry exercises.”

——

About an hour after sunset, there’s a brisk knock on Alexander’s door—one he has come to recognize as Washington’s. Alexander has just enough time to scramble upright before the man himself enters the room shoulder-first, a decanter of amber liquid grasped in one hand and a narrow wooden box clutched in the other.

“Good evening, Colonel,” Washington greets, setting the items down and drawing two glasses out of his coat pockets. “I apologize for the intrusion.”

“…Not at all, sir,” Alexander answers, his good hand folded crisply behind his back.

Washington notices, of course. “At ease, son. I do not intend to disturb your evening. I thought only—do you play chess?”

He opens the wooden box, revealing an exquisitely hard-carved wooden chess set; the edges of the pieces are worn down to a sheen in places from years of use.

It looks like the sort of heirloom that Uncle John would have had, stacked on the shelves in the library at the Grange. Alexander—who owns nothing, not Gulliver, not the clothes upon his back—has to tear his eyes away.

“Yes, sir,” Alexander answers, a beat too late to be natural.

Washington lets it pass, though. He pours them each a glass of what looks to be whiskey, sits down at the small table, and gestures for Alexander to join him.

Alexander takes black—or blood red, in this case, as the pieces are carved from a deep cherry. Washington makes the opening play, his large fingers surprisingly deft as he slides his pawn into place.

“As seems to be my custom upon entering your company, I find I must apologize,” Washington says, a few moves in. “Colonel Laurens’ behavior at luncheon was most inappropriate.”

Alexander takes his time to respond, setting his knight into place to capture one of Washington’s castles after the next move. “You have no need to apologize, sir. His convictions are logical, and he spoke the truth of my presence here.”

“That truth that you are on the other side of the war? Perhaps,” Washington answers, neatly moving his castle to the left. “But he also disparaged your character. As his commanding officer, his actions reflect upon me—you know that as well as I do, Colonel.”

It is useless to argue. Washington is correct, after all. If any of Alexander’s men (God rest their souls) had said such a thing in such a setting, he too would have sought to apologize on their behalves. So Alexander simply nods his acceptance, switching tactics to capture a pawn that Washington had been steadily advancing towards his bishop.

“The Colonel’s actions also cut our discussion short,” Washington adds, a minute later. “You had commented upon writings in support of our cause—might I ask which you have read?”

“ _Common Sense_ , your Declaration, and more pamphlets than I can possibly name. I would not be surprised if Colonel Burr has resorted to writing them himself, given the frequency at which they appear,” Alexander answers dryly.

Washington chuckles, taking one of Alexander’s knights in turn. “Unlikely,” he comments; he shoots Alexander a half-conspiratorial glance, as though he’s about to make a joke at Burr’s expense but thinks the better of it.

“At any rate,” Washington recovers, “your opinions on the merits of our cause, though I cannot agree with them, were well-articulated. Have you a background in rhetoric?”

“No,” Alexander says, somewhat regretfully. If he’d had the chance to go to university—if—then perhaps—

“I must say I am surprised, Colonel, that a man of your intellect would not have turned to the written and spoken word,” Washington continues, interrupting Alexander’s chain of thought. “Might I be so bold, then, as to ask what you did before the war?”

Washington is not nearly so bold as his wife, who had practically interrogated Alexander on the first day they’d met—but Alexander refrains from pointing this out, choosing instead to take a sip of whiskey before responding.

“Shipping,” he answers, weighing it carefully. Washington still thinks him to be a true-born Scottish nobleman, after all, and Alexander cannot judge how much of Washington’s treatment might be based upon his background.

“Ah. From an office, or did you venture upon the sea yourself?”

Washington captures one of Alexander’s bishops, then, coming dangerously near to the first check of the match; Alexander is distracted as he answers.

“From an office in Glasgow; I’ve only sailed the ocean twice,” he says, truthfully but without thinking.

He hears the error as soon as he’s said it—sailed the ocean twice, and somehow ended in the Colonies instead of in his supposed homeland—and scrambles to cover by hastily taking Washington’s queen.

It’s a foolish move, and as soon as he grasps the faded white piece in his palm he can tell that Washington’s won the match—that he’d planned it all along, and set Alexander up for the fall. He’d simply been waiting him out.

Thankfully, Washington neither makes a comment about Alexander’s voyages nor gloats upon his victory. He edges Alexander neatly and inevitably into checkmate in only two additional turns.

“Well played, sir,” Alexander acknowledges, tipping his red king to the side.

“To you as well,” Washington answers, eyeing him, as ever, with something akin to curiosity. “A formidable opponent.”

He stands to take his leave, then, and bids Alexander a good night. “I will leave the set here, unless you are averse to a rematch,” Washington says, questioning.

Alexander is torn for a moment, grasping for what to say—it has been a diversion, to be sure, and he hadn’t thought of his broken arm or miserable circumstances in nearly an hour. He’d enjoyed the mental exercise of strategy, despite his ultimate loss.

 _And surely it is no more of a crime to play chess with one’s enemy than it is to walk or to sup with him,_ Alexander thinks. _I cannot be condemned for hoping to survive captivity with my mental faculties intact._

“I would like that, sir,” he says, finally, pushing away the twist of guilt in his stomach in what has become a familiar exertion of self-control.

——

After the first chess match, Alexander’s life in the rebel camp settles into a busier pace. He joins Von Steuben’s training daily, snow or shine; he endures looks from Pierre and the Baron’s friendly but prodding remarks.

He joins the rebel officers for lunch, most frequently translating between Von Steuben and Washington but also offering his own thoughts on training or philosophy when asked.

Colonel Laurens does not come to the next luncheon, nor the one after that. Nearly two weeks pass before Alexander sees him at the table again, this time seated between Mrs. Washington and Burr, who yielded his chair next to the General for the lady.

His eyes meet Alexander’s, brimming with resentment, and for a moment Alexander stills in the doorway. He rallies himself to continue to his usual seat, but fails to move before Von Steuben notices his hesitation and claps him on the back.

“What are you waiting for?” Von Steuben asks in French, easily. “You have earned your meal, just as much as he has,” he continues, and from how a blush rises in Laurens’ speckled cheek, Alexander can tell the Baron’s words carried enough for Laurens to hear.

Von Steuben steers Alexander to his chair. As they raise their spoons for the drab porridge that makes up the day’s rations, Von Steuben begins to expound upon the finer merits of cannon axle design in Washington’s direction. He nudges Alexander for translation; it’s clear enough to see that the task is, again, simply a distraction, as neither General nor Baron are likely to personally operate a cannon.

But Alexander takes it, dodging Laurens’ glare and letting the French sentences wash all other thoughts from his mind.

Laurens sits through the meal, sullen and silent, looking for all the world like a muzzled dog brought forcefully to heel.

——

Every few days, Washington comes by for chess, settling into the chair opposite Alexander’s.

Washington is easier, somehow—more open than he has been on their walks, which have grown less frequent as the weather has changed for the worse. He explains that the chess set was a gift from his own long-dead father, and that Washington had inherited it after his elder brother had likewise passed.

(Alexander’s breath catches in his chest, tight and painful, when Washington mentions it; the world would be so cruel as to cast their histories in such a similar and yet fundamentally different light!)

Alexander makes an effort to keep his own disclosures to a minimum, as is proper for an officer imprisoned in an enemy camp; but he remembers their truce and his own promises, and sometimes has no choice but to answer Washington’s polite inquiries with truths of his own.

 _I joined the Army in ’74,_ he admits _,_ and _no, thank you, sir, I am not in need of paper to write to my uncle, we are not…we do not…_ and _I should like to be a lawyer, perhaps,_ and _I hate the sea._

Alexander can tell that Washington is being careful not to press too far and edge into interrogation. He himself is equally careful to avoid any reference to his origins—better that Washington see him as slightly estranged heir to a Scottish castle than a bastard of Nevis. He’s held his secrets to his chest for more than a decade, now; Washington will not be the first to unravel them.

And so they play on, each in turn; despite Alexander’s best efforts, Washington remains always one game ahead.

——

January passes into February and February passes into March, all without change to Alexander’s circumstances. Despite his activities and the bustle of the camp around him, he feels frozen in time. He languishes.

The rebels are preparing to break camp, now. The men that Alexander passes on the way to visit Gulliver in the stables (alone, now, for he is trusted enough to walk and return) count their belongings carefully and shuffle their packs to test the space in their few, rickety wagons.

Returning from the training ground one day, Von Steuben and Pierre at his heels, Alexander nearly stops short. Men in greatcoats pace the muddied yard, their retinues scrambling behind them. The insignia on their shoulders gleam, and though Washington hasn’t said as much to Alexander, it is clear he has summoned his generals to his side for counsel prior to the spring campaign.

It takes every ounce of his willpower to continue up the stairs into the house, knowing that their typical luncheon is likely to be overrun by the very generals Alexander had fought against. It is bad enough that Washington himself had led the rebels at Brandywine and Germantown--now Alexander is likely to be faced with Greene and Knox and Stirling besides.

He steels himself with the reminder that Washington is their chief, and has given his word to see to Alexander’s protection, no matter what the other generals might say.

He stands back to allow Von Steuben to enter first, just in case, and follows him to the table in their usual manner. A general that Alexander does not recognize has been placed to Washington’s right, where Alexander would typically sit--he and Washington are deep in conversation, but stand upon the Baron’s entry.

"Good afternoon,” Washington says, warmly, looking to Alexander with a nod to translate. “I don’t believe you have met--Benedict, may I present Baron Von Steuben? Friedrich, this is General Arnold.”

For a fleeting, eternal second, Alexander freezes.  
  
He’s heard that name before.   
  



	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edited by [herowndeliverance](http://archiveofourown.org/users/atheilen) \- thank you!!
> 
> On ne prend pas les oiseaux à la tartelle = English equivalent: Deal gently with the bird you mean to catch.

  
**November 1778**

  
  
“You should have killed him, you know.”   
  
George does not react, of course; he remains slumped at the desk in the room that will serve as his office for these months in winter camp. Outwardly, he looks as despondent as he has since Monmouth.   
  
Friedrich knows that the aides have kept George awake since riding to his rescue. They have been asking calm and measured questions for hours, quills in hand as they work to document the ignominious occasion of their leader’s capture. He knows George must be exhausted, but there is little to be done about that now, when there is a near-unconscious redcoat shackled to the wall somewhere upstairs.   
  
“It would have been kinder,” Friedrich continues. “You’ve ruined his life and burdened our camp unnecessarily—how do you imagine a redcoat will get along here, among Laurens and the others?”   
  
Friedrich pauses then, a tacit signal to Pierre. Pierre rattles off the English, which only serves to make George rub at his temples.   
  
A minute later, and Friedrich has his reply.   
  
“If you see him and talk to him, you will understand,” Pierre translates. “He is so young—he is no more than a boy, and smart, and honorable. He did not kill me when he had the chance many times over. I hope you have a high enough opinion of my honor to understand why there was no other choice.”   
  
George looks up as he says it, a flash of fervent belief in his eyes that hadn’t been there before. It’s the sort of passion that hasn’t crossed George’s face for months.    
  
A rush of relief floods into Friedrich’s chest at the sight. A rush of hope.    
  
“All right, then,” he says, looking to Pierre.   
  
“All right?” George’s bewildered response, a moment later.   
  
“All right,” Friedrich confirms evenly. “You say he is honorable, and that he deserves this—that it is an act of mercy. Of grace.”   
  
“I do,” George confirms. “He speaks French, you know. I think you would like him.”   
  
Pierre says this with a wrinkled nose, undisguised disdain and disbelief in his tone.   
  
“Then I will accept his presence here, of course, Your Excellency,” Friedrich returns, swatting lightly at Pierre’s shoulder. “Do you have any objections if I put him to work?”   
  
George looks surprised; shocked, even. As though he hasn’t thought about the day-to-day; hasn’t thought about what to do with the boy after saving his life and casting him into chains. It is curious and unlike him, really; George is, if anything, an over-thinker. A worrier, though he knows better than to let his men see. That he hadn’t planned this—well. The boy must be something extraordinary.    
  
“If he agrees, of course you may,” George says hurriedly, covering for his uncertainty. “I…you may find him a challenge to convince. He is steadfast in his convictions.”   
  
“You know much of his character,” Friedrich observes. He keeps his tone light; not accusing—Pierre takes his cue and does the same. Despite their efforts, however, George’s expression has fallen back from that brief moment of passion to something akin to guilty shock.    
  
“I owe Colonel Burr a conversation, I’m afraid,” George says in lieu of a response. “If you will excuse me, gentlemen.”   
  
It is a blatant distraction if Friedrich has ever seen one. There’s nothing for it, though—and Friedrich can learn more about this redcoat boy from other sources, after all. He bows, clearing the way to the door; George passes and disappears down the hall towards the kitchen.   
  
“What now?” Pierre asks, arms crossed.   
  
“We watch,” Friedrich answers, stretching his spine. He will sleep well tonight; better, if Benjamin has returned from his journey to Richmond. “We wait.  On ne prend pas les oiseaux à la tartelle. ”

Friedrich has always enjoyed a puzzle.

  
***   
  
  
And then, abruptly, the boy is there, standing barefoot in the kitchen in a white shirt that billows to his knees and staring at Pierre and Friedrich with barely-concealed terror in his eyes. He’s dark and skinny, thoroughly unkempt, and he clutches one arm to his chest in a sling.   
  
_ It’s George’s shirt,  _ Friedrich realizes, eyes lighting on the broad shoulders that hang off of the boy’s frame.  _ He has clothed the boy himself.  _   
  
He dismisses Pierre—for this first meeting, he will learn more without an audience. And oh, learn he does.   
  
Two things are instantly clear: French is the boy’s mother tongue; he reels it off too easily for it to have been learned at a schoolmaster’s knee. But he isn’t French; oh, no, and Friedrich would wager easily that he’s not a Scotsman either. His words have the unmistakable lilt of the Caribbean.    
  
The puzzle is only twisting further and deeper into itself. Friedrich smiles, eats his apple, and invites the boy to training. The boy says no, just as George predicted; but Friedrich can see the hunger in his eyes. He’ll change his tune. Friedrich can wait.   
  
  
***   
  
He does not, of course, wait idly. Naturally, the first step is to consult the wisest person in the camp.   
  
“He’s a good lad,” Mrs. Washington says regretfully, having just relayed through Pierre the details she’d learned of the boy’s upbringing and family history. Friedrich has caught her in the sitting room, a mass of brown woolen cloth spread thickly over her skirt and a long needle in her hand. “He gave his oath not to harm George or others here, and I believe him. But…”   
  
“Oui, madame?”   
  
“Oh, nothing,” she says, dismissing her thoughts. “Only that it—it is a shame, truly. That our enemy should have hundreds, thousands, of such men, killing and dying in loyal service to their king. That so many families are being ripped apart.”   
  
“And the boy—Hamilton,” Friedrich tests the name out on his tongue, “He is one of these loyal soldiers?”   
  
“Indeed,” Mrs. Washington sighs. “More loyal than most, I’d wager. He’s a curious one, Baron.”   
  
Pierre says it back to Friedrich with a bit of a roll to his eyes.    
  
“My thanks, madame,” Friedrich answers, ignoring Pierre entirely. “Your insights are most appreciated, as are your efforts to ensure that the boy remains in good health.”   
  
Mrs. Washington smiles in response, turning her attention back to her sewing.   
  
Friedrich makes his exit gracefully, Mrs. Washington’s words echoing in his mind. He adds them to the list of clues: a dead father, an uncle in Scotland, an islander’s accent.   
  
  
***   
  
The second step lies in France. The Marquis is still on the road; likely not even in Boston yet. But Friedrich had heard enough of the Lafayettes while in Europe to know where their real power lies.   
  
_ My dear madam, _ _  
_ _  
_ _ I hope this letter finds you in excellent health. Your beloved husband continues his journey to your side, and I must only beseech your patience on his behalf. He has spoken often of his ardent desire to see you, and has cursed this war which, though a worthy cause, keeps you apart. _ _  
_ _  
_ _ I write to request a favor; I do apologize for troubling you yourself but I assure you it is a matter of utmost importance and cannot wait for our dear friend’s return to France. There is a young man, recently arrived at our camp, whose history is, for reasons I cannot explain fully in this medium, a mystery of the greatest importance to solve. His name is Alexander Hamilton, and he professes to be from Stevenston, Scotland, near Glasgow. His uncle is lord there, a man likely by the name of John Hamilton. Our subject himself is in his early twenties, and speaks French as his mother tongue; despite his claim of Scottish connection, he was clearly born in the Caribbean colonies. Naught else is known about him. I would wager from his speech that he had a tutor from Paris.  _ _  
_ _  
_ _ I humbly request your aid in determining additional detail on his background, as you are able. I assure you that any facts you are able to discover will be most advantageous to our cause, and to returning your husband swiftly to your bed. _ _  
_ _  
_ _ Your most obdt servant, _ _  
_ _ Friedrich, Baron von Steuben _   
  
He writes it himself, relishing the opportunity to communicate without assistance, and hands it off to Pierre.   
  
“And to whom shall I send this?” Pierre asks, skimming it with eyebrows raised.   
  
“Adrienne de Noailles, of course; the Marquise de Lafayette. But we mustn’t give the game away, Pierre; when the Marquis has written her in the past, he has sent the letters through a serving girl in their household, better to hide our plans in the event that the British should seize the mail ship. He name was—” Friedrich racks his brain for a moment, “Marguerite Durand, at the Hôtel de Noailles.”    
  
“Of course, Monsieur,” Pierre responds, addressing the envelope with a flourish and reaching for the sealing wax. He pauses for only a moment to regard Friedrich. “You wish to hunt Hamilton down, then?”   
  
“Nothing so violent as that, of course,” Friedrich laughs. “We are gentlemen, my boy, and he is at our mercy. I simply wish to make a study of him; to know him. To be able to advise His Excellency on how best to proceed.”   
  
“With respect, Monsieur, you are both fools,” Pierre grouses, sealing the envelope. “Hamilton is hardly going to switch allegiances—you would be mad to expect such a thing.”   
  
“Ah, ah. I do not expect anything. I am simply preparing for all possibilities,” Friedrich reprimands gently, not at all concerned by Pierre’s attitude.    
  
“As you say,” Pierre returns, looking just as dubious as he had before.   
  
“Go on, then. Indulge me, though I may be a fool.” Friedrich waves at the door.  Pierre leaves dutifully, letter in hand. With any luck, it will reach the Marquise by the end of January.    
  
  
***   
  
  
After the letter, he puts thoughts of the boy out of his mind; there is much to do, after all, if they hope to win this war.  A single prisoner is not something to be obsessed upon, no matter what example the General himself might be setting.   
  
So when, nearly a month later, Friedrich arrives at the training ground for the morning drills and finds the boy standing there next to Pierre, fidgeting in a somehow familiar brown coat—well, he’s delighted. This will make the investigation ever so much easier, after all.   
  
The boy looks weak and drawn, as though he is unfamiliar to sunlight and motion. But he manages to acquit himself well, barely hesitating before calling out orders in English. A quick nod from Pierre confirms to Friedrich what he had already suspected—the boy, honest and honorable to a fault, is translating Friedrich’s words with dutiful, stubborn determination.   
  
Assured that training will continue apace, Friedrich makes a study of the boy. It doesn’t take much—the boy is still learning to hide his facial expressions, and is quick to blush and stammer when Friedrich lets loose his more creative profanities.    
  
Their luncheons provide another avenue for evaluation, of course. That first day, it is clear that the boy does not wish to go. That he would rather go hungry, scurry back up to his cell, and hide.    
  
So Friedrich takes a risk, eyeing the boy sidelong. “Join us. Unless you are too shy and wish to hide in your little room upstairs,” he says, letting the challenge hang in the air.   
  
It works; Friedrich chuckles, delighted, as the boy (who knows, of course, that it had been a ploy, and knows that Friedrich knows he knows) sighs and mutters his acceptance, allowing Friedrich to steer him towards the house.    
  
“My little lion,” Friedrich says, and means it; he’s not blind to the courage it must take for the boy to square his shoulders and walk directly towards a table crowded with his enemies. For the courage it must take to survive here, one prisoner in a sea of Colonial forces.   
  
John Laurens, of course, provides a complication—whereas the first part of the luncheon proceeds as planned, allowing Friedrich several opportunities to poke at the boy and see his reactions, Laurens’s outburst leaves the boy pale and shaken in its wake.    
  
“That man—Laurens—was simply making remarks upon my…background,” the boy says, keeping it for Friedrich’s ears alone.    
  
“Ah,” Friedrich answers. Of course Laurens could tell, he thinks. The boy’s French is good, but to a trained ear it has an unmistakable, raw edge. “He lived in Europe, you know, including London—and the boy has an ear for accents. I am not surprised.”   
  
“That may be, but I am a Scottish officer. My worth is bound to my position,” the boy says after a beat, desperate.    
  
And oh—there it is, Friedrich thinks. Whatever ghost haunts the boy, whatever imagined fear has driven him to stubborn honor and survival in this place—it is that. It is worth.   
  
It is an orphan’s motivation, a lonely one, and not for the first time, Friedrich wonders about the boy’s supposed uncle in Scotland. About what must have poisoned that well to such a degree that the boy’s eyes are feverish with it. From how the boy talks, too, Friedrich can tell that his thoughts of worth have become long-since ingrained. Immutable. The boy truly believes that his lot in life is fully tied to his good standing in the British King’s army.   
  
“Is it?” Friedrich says, looking at the boy neutrally.    
  
“I would not have him set ideas into the General’s head,” the boy says, betraying his feelings further.   
  
So the boy values George’s opinions, even though he might not admit it readily. He craves George’s approval; he wants George to see him only as the perfect, noble Scottish gentleman he professes to be.   
  
(And Friedrich can tell that George values the boy, just as he has all-but-adopted the Marquis. George is none-too-subtle in how he looks at them both, longing in his eyes.)   
  
“Perhaps it is not so bad to state the truth,” Friedrich says.  “It certainly takes more courage to be honest, non?”   
  
The boy looks away. George returns to the table, and the moment is broken.   
  
  
***   


 

**March 1779**

  
Friedrich has two months to study the boy; two months of training, watching the boy gradually relax, and two months of luncheons, watching the boy carefully engage with George and Colonel Burr and avoid so much as a glance at Laurens.  
  
And the boy has talked to Friedrich, of course. They converse while Pierre runs the men through marching drills, and when the day’s work is completed and they turn for the house. The boy is reticent to share, but Friedrich has become an expert in prodding him into admissions. He has learned the following: the boy is an only child, though not planned as such (an all-too-common reality of child rearing, Friedrich knows, though his own desires have never leant themselves towards forming a family). He had worked hard for his military commission, fighting for it after a vitriolic dispute with the rest of his family.  
  
“What will you do after the war?” Friedrich asks one day, as they stride down the hallway to the dining room.  
  
“If I survive, I imagine I will be imprisoned,” the boy says, quiet but frank.  
  
Friedrich draws up short and looks at him, considering. “You know that the General will see to your release and repatriation, no matter what happens?”  
  
“It is not a question of the General,” the boy answers tiredly. “I led my men to their deaths and went on to live among the enemy…I do not anticipate that His Majesty’s courts will be lenient. Nor should they be.”  
  
He looks away, swallowing roughly, and walks into the dining room. He does not talk to Friedrich again until George pushes him to translate an anecdote about life in Virginia; even then, the boy’s tone and posture are so subdued that even Pierre notices and catches Friedrich’s eye with concern.  
  
So, the boy has no hope for his own future; he sees only desolation, whether the war is won or lost.  
  
Friedrich files it away and, for the rest of the meal, makes a conscious effort to cheer the boy up by rivaling George’s stories with tales of Prussian debauchery.  
  
And then, in mid-March, the Marquise’s response comes just as the camp begins the tedious process of departure for the spring campaign.  
  
_My dear sir,_ she writes, thanking him for his concern and sending words of love to her husband, who has yet to arrive on France’s shores, _I am pleased to inform you that through a most fortuitous chain of events involving my own childhood piano tutor and the most reputable gentleman’s establishment in Paris, the details of which my husband is sure to provide you at a later date, I was able to identify and interview the very tutor who journeyed north to teach the young Monsieur Hamilton of whom you write. He provided a wealth of information, among it the address and name of the subject man’s family in Scotland, which I have enclosed in the event that you or he should wish to contact them._ _  
__  
__He noted that the subject man did not arrive in Scotland until 1768, a child of thirteen; that he came on a ship with a brother, whose name the tutor cannot recall but who perished on the voyage. The child was placed into the custody of his uncle, the Lord John Hamilton. He did not talk about his parents, but it was common knowledge amongst the staff that the child’s mother was deceased, and the father—a James Hamilton, a younger brother of the Lord John—was a layabout and scoundrel by reputation who, having squandered his lot in a number of ill-fated business ventures, met the child’s mother on the island of Nevis. The tutor noted, however, that the child displayed none of these negative attributes, and beyond a tendency to resist authority and speak up in a disrespectful manner, the child was in fact quite dedicated and motivated in his studies. He learned Latin and Greek quickly, and had a talent for writing and political discourse._ _  
__  
__The tutor departed the family on the occasion of the subject’s seventeenth birthday, as it had been determined that the young man would join his uncle in Glasgow in the shipping business as an apprenticed clerk. The tutor moved back to Paris at that point, and had no contact with the family thereafter._ _  
__  
__Following receipt of this information, I took the liberty of inviting a dear friend of mine with expertise in the Caribbean shipping industry over for tea. I assure you, my lord, that she is to be trusted, and you should not worry for your cause on her account. In another stroke of luck, she had before heard the name, Hamilton—common though it is—and she quickly associated it with a scandal that occurred later on the island of St. Croix. In her words, a Scottish rascal by that name had, for a number of years, cohabited in a most immoral manner with a winsome young lady who was married to another. When the adultery was revealed, the Scotsman fled, leaving the woman in poverty with two bastard sons to her name._ _  
__  
__I cannot, of course, make a solid association between these stories, nor vouch for their truth. I hope, however, that this information may prove useful in your efforts._  
  
Friedrich sets the parchment down, stroking his chin. The Marquise had proven her mettle, and then some—and if the boy were a bastard, then—  
  
Yes, indeed, Friedrich thinks, for upon review of the boy’s behavior over the course of their acquaintance, it is strikingly, painfully clear. Not an orphan, then—or at least, not quite. But a bastard, driven by something else entirely, something poisoned by scandal and reputation. Something that explains the boy’s desperation, pride, and stubborn will to survive with his honor intact. Something with which Friedrich himself is intimately, terribly familiar.  
  
Shame. 

  
***

  
  
All of this is to say that when, on the 23rd of March in the year of our Lord 1779, Friedrich follows the boy into the dining room for a perfectly normal luncheon, George introduces General Benedict Arnold, and the boy freezes like he’s been shot in the chest—Friedrich notices.  
  
The boy recovers quickly, of course, and translates as though nothing is wrong. Friedrich exchanges niceties with George and Arnold, and they sit down to sup together in the most normal of tableaus.  
  
But beneath the table, the boy is worrying his breeches with his fingertips, a frantic motion in the corner of Friedrich’s eye. Friedrich is careful not to look; he does not give himself away. George, for his part, is caught up in welcoming his friends and visiting acquaintances and has not noticed a thing.  
  
After the meal, the boy excuses himself quickly to retire upstairs. Friedrich watches his retreating back, tuning out the sound of English conversation around him, and thinks on the day’s events. On what would stop the boy in his tracks, as it did, and so tax his ability to maintain his typically stoic behavior around George and the others.  
  
_Arnold,_ Friedrich’s mind supplies. The only variable to have been introduced to the equation. The only name and face which had caused the boy to stumble—for he hadn’t done anything of the sort when introducing Friedrich to Stirling a few minutes later.  The boy won’t say anything; Friedrich knows that. George won’t say anything, because he did not notice—for all their time together, Friedrich thinks he hardly knows the boy at all. Friedrich himself knows better than to say anything to the boy. He knows better than to ask.  
  
As the men filter out of the dining room, aides scattering to the library and outside and the generals proceeding to George’s study en masse, Friedrich snags Pierre by the sleeve.  
  
“I need you to... _study_...this General Arnold,” Friedrich says, pulling Pierre close and whispering into his ear. “And find out if he has ever traveled overseas. To Scotland, or the Caribbean. Discreetly.”  
  
Pierre stills—he’s a smart boy, and knows Friedrich well enough to identify the urgency and suspicion in his tone. “Of course, Monsieur,” he replies smoothly. “It would be my pleasure.” 

  
***

  
Pierre returns that night. “He was a ship’s captain, Monsieur, and traveled extensively to the West Indies.”  
  
“Hmm,” Friedrich acknowledges. It is a complication, of course. Perhaps the boy simply remembered the name from childhood, but was too cowed by the surrounding company to acknowledge their previous acquaintance.  
  
“That’s not all,” Pierre continues, interrupting Friedrich’s train of thought. His smile is dark; predatory. “There is something more—his aides have alluded that he is unsatisfied. That he wishes for a more useful and glorious command.”  
  
“They said as much?”  
  
“I can tell,” Pierre answers smoothly. “With your leave and…a week, or two at most, I can bring you an answer.”  
  
Pierre crosses his arms expectantly, face alight with devious enjoyment. Friedrich has always known this about Pierre, of course—that he is a schemer, a little vicious; that he is bored with simply translating, that he is quick to pass judgment and enjoys nothing more than scorn and schadenfreude. But Friedrich has rarely had cause to use these attributes, safely ensconced in camp as they are.  
  
“You know what I am asking?” Friedrich says, carefully.  
  
“Whether General Arnold has betrayed His Excellency to the British,” Pierre answers bluntly, though he holds his voice in check at a whisper. “I will find out.”  
  
“Then of course, you have my leave and my blessing,” Friedrich answers, a wave of gratitude at his aide’s loyalty swelling in his chest. He tosses Pierre his money pouch—all of it, yes. This is important enough that they will simply have to go without parties and wine.  
  
“On my honor,” Pierre bows, turning on his heel. Friedrich does not see him again for six days.  
  
When Pierre returns, riding into camp with his horse at a lather, he has a pleased grin on his face; it shows his teeth.  
  
“Your proof, Monsieur,” Pierre says, striding into Friedrich’s office and not bothering to knock. He has a parcel of letters clutched triumphantly in his fist.

  
  
***

  
  
After that, it is easy; no more difficult than crushing a cockroach beneath one’s boot.  
  
First, to tell George.  
  
Friedrich does not betray the boy’s part in the intrigue—he considers it, but to do so would simply cause George greater pain. It will be bad enough already.

So he chooses a time in the late evening, when the boy will be safely ensconced upstairs and has no chance of overhearing the conference, and summons Pierre and Burr into the General’s study.  
  
“I received a letter from the Marquis,” Friedrich improvises, pushing thoughts of the boy’s involvement aside. Friedrich will have to warn Lafayette later, but as an excuse—it will do.  
  
George brightens instantly upon hearing the words; he has asked after Lafayette near-weekly since his departure, and is undoubtedly hopeful that Friedrich has brought him good news from France.  
  
“I’m sorry, Your Excellency,” Friedrich starts. “It contained…unfortunate news, concerning Benedict Arnold.” The words flow from there; Friedrich recounts the evidence that Pierre had collected, painting it as irrefutable.  
  
George’s expression, typically tightly held in the presence of his subordinates, crumbles.  
  
“We will need to write a letter, summoning him back,” George says finally, hoarse. “Aaron, could you?”  
  
“Of course, sir,” Burr says smoothly.  
  
“He must not suspect,” George continues. “Friedrich, if you would—we must have a panel of judges. A court. It must be done properly.”  
  
George runs a hand over his face. “Properly, but quickly,” he amends.  
  
Friedrich nods, and Pierre relays his assent.  
  
In another week, Arnold hangs.

  
  
***

  
Friedrich does not intend to tell the boy. It would only be cruel, after all, and Friedrich has experienced enough cruelty in his life to avoid making such behavior a habit. He says nothing the next morning as the boy stands smartly at his side and shouts his commands in English; he says nothing as they start to walk back to the house for lunch.  
  
But then, there beside them, a wagon creaks past; on it, the shape of a man under a canvas shroud, unmistakable; the boy looks at it, curious, and for a moment he turns to follow it with his gaze as it passes.  
  
“Has someone died?” the boy asks ten minutes later, when they are seated at table and there is a lull in the conversation. He asks in French, the better for discretion, and keeps his voice quiet; after all these months, he is still on edge.  
  
“Why, the traitor, of course,” Laurens says, before Friedrich can, his mouth curling poisonously at the edges. God be damned, that Laurens understands them at all. “Benedict Arnold.”  
  
The boy freezes, color draining from his face. His hands still where they hold his fork and knife.  
  
“He died soiling himself on the noose like the redcoat trash he was,” Laurens continues, his volume rising; it draws George’s attention, from where he’d been talking to Burr. “He begged for mercy, for his wife, can you imagine—”  
  
Friedrich cannot understand what George says next, but the reprimand in his tone is clear enough; Laurens purses his lips and stabs at his mutton, but says no more.  
  
The rest of the boy’s meal goes unfinished.  
  
Friedrich spends the afternoon in George’s office, Pierre at his side; they are planning the campaign in full swing now, with maps strewn over every available surface. He does not know where the boy goes, during these long hours; only that the boy always shows up the next morning, clutching his brown coat tightly around his chest and forcing his spine straight.  
  
As night falls and Friedrich moves to retire (he’ll sleep alone, Benjamin being unfortunately dispatched back to Virginia), he hears the echo of retching from the end of the hallway. From the boy’s room.  
  
No one else is near. Most of the aides continue to work downstairs, and Pierre has gone out into camp in search of brandy. George has retired, but with his room on the opposite side as it is, they are unlikely to be overheard.  
  
It is time, then, Friedrich decides. The boy clearly knows already; it will do no further good to spare him from the truth. Friedrich knows soldiers. He knows the boy is eating himself alive, in there.  
  
He knocks on the door briskly and does not wait for the boy to answer, knowing that the boy would likely try to send any visitor away. Friedrich walks in, almost choking on the acrid stench of vomit in the musty, confined space. Friedrich gets a glimpse of the boy, curled on the bed, before he flinches and forces himself upright with a strangled-out _bonsoir, Monsieur._  
  
Friedrich says nothing, at first, moving to take care of more exigent matters by forcing the small window open to the night air. They will just have to speak quietly—the fresh breeze will be worth it. That done, he turns back to where the boy stands, practically shaking.  
  
“You are upset about General Arnold, my little lion,” he starts.  
  
The boy opens his mouth to reply. His jaw twitches, as though he is trying to force courage into his very bones.  
  
“There is no need to hide it,” Friedrich continues, holding up a hand. “I know, I know that you knew, and now you know that I knew. We have come, as the English say, full circle. We are honest with each other, non?”  
  
If it is possible, the boy’s already-sickly complexion pales further. He’s scrambling, recalculating, his mouth opening without words. Friedrich waits him out.  
  
“Monsieur,” the boy tries, “I did not—I do not know of what you speak.”  
  
“Stop,” Friedrich says, gently. “I have told no one, nor will I. You did not betray your King; do not now betray your honor by telling a lie we both know to be false.”  
  
“Sir, please, I did not mean to jeopardize—“  
  
“I know.”  
  
The boy looks away with a swallow as Friedrich nods. He reaches blindly for the bed and sinks down upon it, propriety forgotten.  
  
“I swear I have abided by every oath I have taken here,” the boy says weakly.  
  
“I know,” Friedrich repeats.  
  
“Think of it as my victory, not your defeat,” he continues. “That the enemy’s army discovered a plot hatched by your own forces, but with which you yourself had no involvement—there is no shame in that. Such are the games of war.”  
  
The boy stares at the floor; he is crumpled. Finally, he takes a breath and looks up at Friedrich, a ragged cross of desperation and fear in his voice.  
  
“You did not—you did not tell the General?”  
  
Friedrich shakes his head, and the boy laughs, a harsh and ruined sound.  
  
“Why?”  
  
Friedrich thinks for a moment, choosing his words and looking around the empty room. The boy has not a single possession in sight, other than the clothes he wears; a stark and sudden reminder that the boy is a prisoner here. That for all their mornings together, the boy sailed across the ocean dreaming of killing the very farm boys that they’ve strived to train.  
  
“Arnold was angry. Selfish. Venal. When a man like that makes a decision, it is on his own terms and in his own time. You did not aid him; you did not coerce him into his treachery. That you did not share the fact of his betrayal with His Excellency cannot be held against you,” Friedrich says, finally.  
  
“I did not know,” the boy interrupts, struggling back to his feet. “I didn’t, I only heard the name, and heard it again here, and I did not—”  
  
“I believe you, Colonel. But you would not have told His Excellency even if you had known.” Friedrich keeps his tone even. “To answer your question, I did not tell His Excellency for it would have only caused him more pain. And it would have provided no benefits; not for me, not for you, and not for the investigation into that traitor. If things had been different, then yes, your testimony may have been required. But as it stands, no one needs to know,” Friedrich finishes. “Sleep, little lion. You must continue as though nothing has changed. You must survive, non?”  
  
“Oui,” the boy manages, a beat late, his voice no more than a whisper.  
  
Friedrich stands in the hall for a few minutes, after he leaves. As his candle drips slowly downward, pooling on the silver-plated dish and obscuring his reflection, he can hear the boy choking out his breaths, one by one.

  
***

  
  
The boy does not appear for training in the morning.  
  
  



	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW/TW: Brief mention of possible suicidal ideation.
> 
> Thank you to [herowndeliverance](http://archiveofourown.org/users/atheilen) as always!!
> 
> I am going on vacation for the next week with no computer, so the next chapter may take a while. But it is coming!

**April 1779**

**New Jersey**

 

They have moved camp, trudging through the muddied ground, the weight of thousands of boots grinding whatever plants had dared to greet the spring into oblivion. Alexander does not know where they are, now. He barely remembers the journey, though the ache in his legs suggests that’d he’d ridden. Gulliver, more than likely, but he cannot picture it through the fog in his mind. He cannot summon the proof.

He has been assigned a tent, shared with Pierre and Washington’s aides. The angry one—Laurens—is gone, Alexander realizes one day; he cannot say when the man disappeared. Burr remains, glowering silently, but Alexander barely notices. Each morning, he turns toward the wall, curls his limbs into his borrowed bedroll, and tries to sleep.

Everything is lost. Broken. Everything is destroyed, as wholly and utterly as Alexander himself, whose breath rattles in the ragged maw of his chest.

“Are you quite well?” Burr says one day, from close behind Alexander—too close, and Alexander nearly shudders on the ground.

Before, Alexander might have managed a retort, taunting Burr about his professed concern for an enemy officer.

“Fine,” Alexander says, staring at the wall.

“You are missing the drills,” Pierre comments another day, planting his feet squarely and unabashedly between Alexander and the tent wall. He reaches out with one boot and prods Alexander’s side curiously.

“Fine,” Alexander says.

“His Excellency has asked after you.” (Burr.)

“Send him my regards,” Alexander says. He doesn’t turn.

They have moved camp, and life has gone on—but it hasn’t, not at all, for Alexander has ruined everything. In that single, terrible moment, all those weeks ago, when he’d stumbled, when he’d given away secrets he hadn’t known he’d had—when he’d betrayed his vows and his King—he’d burned everything he had built to the ground.

Each morning, the aides eventually leave; Alexander remains. He eats when he remembers, vomiting more often than not, and stumbles to the latrines when no one else is around. He can almost feel his body consuming itself. He’s rotting from the inside, skin stretched over decaying flesh, fading to no more than blood and bone.

He imagines death; how can he not? He can feel the rough scratch of the rope coiled around his neck; the wood of the steps beneath his feet as he climbs to the gallows, one foot in front of the other. His hands clutch together, bound. It is almost a memory. When he walks into the river near camp to bathe, the water rises to his hips, his chest, his mouth, deep enough that he almost—

He doesn’t, of course. He climbs out, dripping, his clothes hardly cleaner than when he’d started.

 

***

 

“Something happened to you. What?” Burr asks, another day. They have been in camp a week; maybe two. Alexander thinks they have moved north, though he does not care enough to ask for confirmation.

“I am fine,” he says, though even to his own ears it sounds dull.

“Hamilton,” Burr counters, wry, from somewhere behind Alexander’s head. “You have not moved in days. You are lying in your own filth. Even Tilghman is starting to complain. You are not, by any definiton, fine.”

“I am,” Alexander repeats.

Burr moves then, stalking around Alexander like a cat waiting to pounce. He settles for reaching down and grasping Alexander’s shoulder, pulling him upright. It’s less than graceful, and Alexander cannot help but flinch away from the touch.

“Come, man,” Burr says, sounding genuinely exasperated. “What was it? Was it Laurens?”

The question takes Alexander by surprise—Colonel Laurens had never been friendly, of course, and had been crueler than most. More volatile. Bloodthirsty. But he has been gone since they left winter camp in New Jersey, and Alexander has not spared him a second thought.

“No,” Alexander says, but Burr does not look convinced.

“Did he say something to you before he left for South Carolina?” Burr peers at Alexander’s person, as though trying to see beneath Washington’s shirt (gone gray with grime, now). “Did he—are you hurt?”

That Burr would expect that of his own comrade speaks volumes, Alexander thinks. Laurens is a wolf, teeth bared and dripping, only restrained by the weight of the General’s expectations.

“South Carolina?” Alexander asks instead of answering.

“He’s gone to raise a battalion of slaves; they’ll be freed after the war. He’s quite the abolitionist,” Burr says, indifferent. “Did he—”

“No,” Alexander interrupts, and for a second he chokes, an infinity of impossible futures caught in his throat.

“No, I am fine. The Colonel did nothing,” he manages.

Burr hums, staring at Alexander for a moment longer before finally standing to depart.

 

***

 

Another day. Pierre is last to leave, taking his time to stretch and splash his face with water from the basin before dressing.

That task complete, he strides over to where Alexander lies on his back, staring up at the tent ceiling, and crowds into his field of view.

“Tu es une déception,” Pierre says, slow, intoning each word. “You were ever so much more interesting before.”

_Déception,_ Alexander thinks, almost laughing at the false cognate. For he is both—a disappointment, as Pierre has labeled him, and a deception, a shadow of a man built on lies and loss.

Pierre leaves. Alexander stays, and doesn’t move.

_After everything,_ he thinks, _after Maman, and Jamie, and years in the drafty attic at the Grange, you were supposed to earn relief—this war was supposed to be your deliverance—you had a chance at honor, Alexander, and you are only a disappointment—_

He closes his eyes.

 

***

 

“Colonel Hamilton!” Washington exclaims; he’s standing next to Burr in the center of the aides’ tent, reviewing papers. Ice slips down the knobs of Alexander’s spine. He’d only left for the latrines a quarter hour ago, at most, and had not expected such a visitor.

“Sir,” Alexander chokes out. He remembers the Baron’s words, in that last, horrible conversation. _You must survive._

“I am glad to see you up and about,” Washington continues, his eyes raking up and down Alexander’s form. “My wife has been most concerned for your health. Colonel Burr kept us apprised of your illness, of course,” he says, looking sincerely concerned for Alexander’s condition. Alexander swings his gaze to Burr, who twitches out a nod, minute and inscrutable.

(Burr still glowers, of course. But Alexander finds it hard to fear him now that they sleep only a few feet apart. Now that he knows Burr keeps a Bible under his pillow—not because it is a Bible, Alexander thinks, but because it belonged to his grandfather. Now that he knows that only Burr, of all the aides, has no one to whom he writes at night.)

“If there is anything we can do, or if you should wish to see the camp doctor, you need only say as much and it will be done,” Washington finishes. “When you are well, I would welcome your company one evening.”

Alexander thinks of their chess games—of the long, cold nights, when Washington had shared stories of his youth, including a trip to the Caribbean, and Alexander had so longed to react. To share in the memory of damp, enveloping heat and the shade of palms, so unlike the spring-green northern forests that surround them.

But he cannot agree, of course. He cannot play chess again, nor go to training, nor sup around a rebel campfire. He cannot, not when his lungs are failing and the noose is pulling tighter against his throat. Not when the same, damned five syllables beat his doom in his eardrums over and over again.

_Benedict Arnold._

(It is not, of course, that Alexander would have supported the man himself. Treachery is treachery; dishonor is dishonor. Arnold embodied the worst of a man’s sins. But that Alexander, inadvertently or no, informed the rebels--betrayed his King and country--is unthinkable. Unlivable.)

“Of course, sir,” Alexander answers Washington, woodenly, not meaning it for a second.

It seems to satisfy Washington, however; he nods at Alexander with a smile and goes back to work, leaving only a few minutes later for his own tent.

(Alexander will not see him again for weeks.)

 

***

 

April fades into May, rain turning the ground beneath them into mud as they march on, camp to camp. Alexander is sodden and miserable. It has been six months, and he is no closer to release or escape than he was on the very first day.

The rebels are fighting, Alexander knows. The men disappear for hours and days at a time to unseen battlefields, returning bloodied and weaker than before.  Alexander stays in the tent, limbs heavy. He isn’t waiting; not exactly. He is simply surviving.

Sometimes Burr tells him, after, of how the tides have turned. Burr keeps his voice more matter-of-fact than cruel, but from what little he shares, the rebels appear to be winning.

(Alexander knows, of course, that it could all be lies—but something in Burr’s expression, some turn of his lip and crease of his eye, could not have been wrought except by victory.)

“Clinton almost had us, today,” Burr says one night, peeling off his boots. “Almost crossed the Hudson, but we held firm.”

_The Hudson,_ Alexander thinks; they are in New York, then. He keeps his back to Burr, silent.

Burr sighs.

“I never imagined that I would say this, Hamilton, but you should talk more,” he continues, “this—whatever you are doing—it is hardly the behavior of an officer or a gentleman. It’s been _months_.”

It’s a well-placed shot, meant to gore, but it merely glances off Alexander’s turned shoulder.

“It was one thing the first week, or the second,” Burr says, voice hard. Unyielding. “If you will not accept assistance, I will no longer offer it.”

Burr stops, then, with the sort of angry, echoing silence that is surely meant to conjure up regret in Alexander. The very idea is ludicrous, however—Burr seems to imply that the two of them had been _friends_ , had been anything other than soldiers on opposite sides of a war. He seems to imply that Alexander has wronged him, personally, when in fact it is Burr and his army who have shackled Alexander, kept him here—

Alexander bites his tongue to keep from reacting. He has already lost everything—there is no need to respond. Burr can have this, whatever it is. Alexander has nothing left to defend.

 

***

 

As the campaign wears on, the aides are absent for longer and longer, often returning only a few hours before dawn and leaving again as the morning breaks. Alexander can’t say that he minds at night (Tilghman snores, after all, and Burr has the disquieting habit of falling asleep with his eyes still halfway open), but the silence during the day is—draining.

Alexander walks to the nearest creek to wash, when he can muster the energy; he wrings out his borrowed clothes and hangs them to dry in the tent. He eats the rebels’ bread, breaking it off one hard-crusted piece at a time. He tries not to think.

On one such day, Alexander has only just managed to fall asleep again, pushing thoughts of the noose out of his head, when he is woken by quiet footsteps, picking their way around the assortment of bedrolls and drying laundry.

“Colonel,” Von Steuben says in French, his eyes raking over Alexander’s sorry appearance and the disarray of the tent floor. “You have been avoiding me,” he chides, pausing to look at Alexander with clear expectation.

“Sir,” Alexander says, woodenly. There is no use in denying it; not when Von Steuben has seen him clearly, used him up, and thrown him out again. Alexander does not hate him, of course; he would have done the same in Von Steuben’s place. Alexander can only hate himself, for offering up the keys to his own destruction so readily.

“You needn’t,” Von Steuben says. “I told you I would keep your confidences, and I have. You are welcome to rejoin the training at any time, or lend your skills to the translation of my opus magnus—a book, you see. A blue manual,” he pauses for a moment to smile proudly. “At any rate, Pierre says you are rotting, like the gazelle who has had its belly torn out. That is not like a little lion at all.”

“Sir,” Alexander repeats.

There is a long moment of silence, in which Von Steuben’s eyes narrow and then slowly release.

“I took the liberty of investigating your background, last winter,” Von Steuben continues finally, his voice taking on a conversational tone. “I will spare you the details, but an associate of mine sought out information on your family.”

_Family._ It’s enough to make Alexander jerk his head up in surprise.

“I’m afraid you have been misinformed, Monsieur,” he says, lips dry. “I have no family.”

Von Steuben eyes Alexander keenly. He looks for a moment as though he is on the verge of talking—of saying something painful and profound—but he simply draws a folded slip of parchment out of his pocket instead.

“Your uncle has written,” he says, short, and he sets the letter down on the table without waiting for Alexander’s response. He turns, something uncharacteristically tight in the set of his shoulders, and strides toward the tent flap.

At the last moment, he reconsiders, looking back at Alexander.

“You are lucky. You have been spared, you have a family who cares enough to write across an ocean, and despite what you may tell yourself, you have done nothing to dishonor your King. You are lucky,” he repeats, eyes piercing. “If you throw it away, you are not half the man I thought you were.”

He leaves without another word.

It takes Alexander another hour to summon the courage to touch the letter.

It has been _years;_ he does not dare lie to himself by thinking that he would have merited thought or attention from Uncle John, who has a family of his own to worry about. For Uncle John to write now, when Alexander is at his lowest—he must surely be severing their connection and condemning Alexander’s fall from grace. It is practical, after all—tales about Alexander’s dishonorable state could tarnish Uncle John’s reputation. They could hurt the company.

So if Uncle John has written, it must be to tell Alexander that their bonds of familial obligation have been severed. To tell him, kindly, that he should not return to the Grange or the docks in the future.

Alexander swallows, bracing himself. He opens the letter, fingers slipping clumsily from disuse—God, he hasn’t read or written anything in weeks—and stops short. Stops dead.

It is signed _John Hamilton_ , yes. It begins with _My dear nephew._ But Alexander knows Uncle John’s handwriting; years of copying his directives at the shipyard left their mark, after all. Alexander knows Uncle John’s hand, and this letter, no matter what it professes to be, is written in another hand entirely.

_My dear nephew,_ it begins, ink bleeding through the page like poison.

_I was most saddened to learn of your circumstances, and wished to write to you at once to assure you that you are in the family’s thoughts and prayers. We at Stevenston are most proud of your service, and count the days until you may return home to these shores once again. You place in the shipping company is assured; I have held everything in the office just as you left it. We will celebrate the day of your return._

_Until then, you must remain strong and you must do your King and country proud. Your dear aunt sends her regards, and the children miss you greatly, particularly your readings from Caesar and Socrates and your walks together through the gardens. Your birthday is fast approaching; we will think of you this June 11_ _th_ _and hold your memory in our hearts._

_Your uncle,_

_John Hamilton_

Alexander lets the letter fall to the floor, fluttering from his grasp and closing upon itself. Anyone with half a mind could tell that it is a forgery—he was born in January, to start, and Uncle John had always been too much of a pragmatist to offer platitudes and flowery compliments. Even if Uncle John had written it in his own hand, it would have been clear that another had dictated the sentiments.

But who, and why?

Something freezes in Alexander’s chest, catching his breath in its icy grip. He grabs for the letter again, scanning. Not the clumsy references to Stevenston and the shipping company, as though the letter writer wanted to convince the rebels of his good intentions. Not the part about his aunt; no. She hardly cared for him at all.

_There._ Alexander exhales, fingers shaking.

He sees it now. His eyes are burning, suddenly blinded by the allusions. Caesar. Killing an emperor—or a General, the nearest thing. Killing Washington.

Socrates—hemlock, then, or perhaps simply poison. And June 11th—a deadline.

_You must do your King and country proud._

An order.

His Majesty’s Army knows where Alexander is. Knows where he sleeps. Knows with whom he has played chess.

And he’s been ordered to end the game.

  



	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, thank you again to [herowndeliverance](http://archiveofourown.org/users/atheilen) for the read through and editing!! 
> 
> Some of you may have noticed that the chapter count was finalized. We are nearing the end! With that, I realized that despite my best intentions to include him, Lafayette is just not going to be around (darn voyages to France and transatlantic crossing time). I took him off the character list -- I hope no one is too disappointed! :)

Alexander stands abruptly, pages grasped in his fist. For a moment, the world spins. It is unconscionable; dishonorable; an insult even to be asked---but it was not a question. It was an _order,_  and Alexander---God help him---what choice does he have, trapped between the rebels' prison and direct, willful treason? It was an order, and he---he will follow it.

He _must_.

He swallows, duty anchoring him to the ground. All thoughts of his men, his fall from grace, Benedict Arnold—all are forcibly shoved aside. Forgotten. There is no space for uncertainty, not anymore.

Alexander walks out of the tent, more surefooted than he has felt in months. He heads toward the creek, tossing the letter into a firepit that he passes. There is no need to keep it, after all. The gauntlet has been thrown.

He washes quickly, barely feeling the water. He pulls Washington’s shirt back on, tucking it in as best he can even though he hasn’t bothered in weeks. The mess is next; it is nearly time for lunch, after all, and Alexander waits patiently in line for his share of mealy apples and salt pork.

Then it is back to the tent. He sets upon it with fervor, folding his bedroll, rearranging the other aides’ hanging laundry, and sweeping the canvas floor of dried mud and leaves. (Burr, naturally, travels with a broom.) This takes only a few minutes, of course, with their space as cramped as it is. When there is nothing else left to do, Alexander sits upon the spindly chair, facing the empty surface of the aides’ desk.

He will need a plan, of course. He will need to win back the rebels’ trust, man by man, until he has the opportunity and the means to follow his orders. It will not be easy.

But he will do it.

He must.

 

***

 

He wakes the next morning and knows he must start in earnest.

Burr is already awake; he kneels, shirtless, head bowed in the gray predawn light. His lips form words Alexander cannot decipher. Tilghman and Pierre still sleep, limbs askew on their bedrolls.

“Colonel,” Alexander whispers softly when Burr has stilled.

Burr’s eyes whip over to Alexander, glinting in the near-dark. He lifts a brow in lieu of a response.

“Could we,” Alexander whispers again, nodding towards the tent flap.

Burr regards him with suspicion; he has clearly not forgotten these last weeks and their few, disastrous conversations. But he stands, nonetheless, and Alexander pushes himself up, following Burr outside into the chill.

Burr walks for a minute, silent, heedless of the fact that they are both barefoot, the dew curling the slick grass around their toes. When they are out of earshot (for that must be the goal, Alexander thinks), Burr turns to face him, with a hardened set to his jaw.

“Yes, Hamilton?”

“Colonel Burr, sir,” Alexander starts. He’d envisioned this conversation, yesterday, while his mind had raced and his hands had shook with duty and possibility. He’d been so sure of his words, of what to say to mollify each aide and wind his Majesty’s snare tighter around the General’s ankle.

It is different in person, though, with Burr looking at him expectantly and only the faintest stirrings of sunrise on the horizon for company.

Alexander swallows.

“I wish to apologize,” he says, forging ahead before Burr has a chance to interrupt or respond. “You were correct in your judgment of my behavior, and my failings. Our opposition, both political and in arms, does not absolve me from failing to adhere to the laws of honor and rules of decorum. I acted in a way unbefitting my station and yours, and I must ask your forgiveness for my conduct over these last weeks. I assure you I have no intention of comporting myself in this manner again. I appreciate the innumerable kindnesses which you have shown me, and regret that I so callously rejected your good will when it was offered.”

Burr peers at him for a beat, brow furrowed, like a porcupine with hackles raised. Alexander tenses.

“Spoken with sincerity and delicacy,” Burr says, finally, “but what, may I ask, caused the shift from your engagement in winter camp to these last months of solitude? If not Colonel Laurens, surely it is requisite that you must explain.”

Alexander draws in his breath. He’d thought of this, too.

“I am an orphan, sir,” he says, forcing out words he hasn’t dared to speak. Words he has saved.

Burr’s eyes widen, as Alexander had known they would.

“I have never been anything, and the red coat I should be wearing—I did not earn that, either. I begged it from a garrison commander whose greatest fear was that someone of my lowly station could dishonor his beloved daughter,” he continues, the honesty scraping at the back of his throat. “Just before we left winter camp, you hung a traitor. Do you remember?”

“Of course,” Burr says, drawing the words out through his teeth.

“Someone said—someone said he had called out for his wife, as he died. I—it was a reminder, sir, of what I myself lack. I do not dispute his execution, of course,” Alexander says quickly, holding up a hand. “No, it was only that I…I was reminded, of my own situation and of how the foundation of my own legacy, such as it was, had been washed away by the realities of my capture.”

Burr nods, slow.

“I am…not proud, of my reaction to this reminder,” Alexander continues, and while he’d intended to make every effort to sound ashamed, he finds that the feeling instead comes naturally, pooling up from his belly in a flush of red and a wash of guilt. “I only ask your indulgence, sir, in considering how you or others might have reacted in the same circumstances,” he finishes, looking down at the spring muck, over at the budding trees—anywhere but at Burr’s face.

“Very well,” Burr says, and Alexander is thrown back to the first time he’d heard Burr’s voice, down in the kitchen with Washington.

He pulls his gaze up to Burr’s cautious; Burr is equally wary, but there’s an undertone of something else there—relief, or understanding, or sympathy, perhaps.

Burr holds out a hand. It takes Alexander a moment too long, for they haven’t done this before, but he shakes, the callouses of Burr’s palm rubbing against his own.

After that, it is like falling. Unstoppable.

First, he returns to the tent, takes off his coat, sits upon his bedroll, and waits for Pierre to wake up. Finally, as the sun starts to crest in the sky, Pierre turns over with a whuff. He stretches, washes his face, and starts to dress, not throwing so much as a look in Alexander’s direction.

“Je suis désolé,” he says, quiet, head bowed, just loud enough for the other man to hear as he pulls on his boots. “J'ai été une deception, tu avais raison.”

Pierre sets his foot down, falling still.

There is silence for a moment—the curse of the apology, Alexander thinks, is that you must wait in agony while the other person turns it over in their head.

“I _was_ right,” Pierre says finally, with more than a hint of satisfaction. “And you are…” he looks at Alexander, head cocked, “You are ready to be a real man again?”

“I am,” Alexander says. “And I am ready to return to training, if you will have me.”

In response, Pierre simply stands, grabbing Alexander’s coat from where he’d placed in on the table and tossing it in Alexander’s face with more force than is strictly necessary. And with that, he’s gone, corners of his lips turned up in a smile.

Alexander exhales, closing his eyes for a moment. Two down; two to go. He can do this; he must.

His reverie is broken by a grumpy, scratchy groan from Tilghman, who is still half-buried in his bedroll, his hair sticking up at all ends. “Well, do I get an apology, too?”

“Sorry, Tilghman,” Alexander calls as an afterthought, striding out after Pierre.

 

***

 

He and Pierre reach the training ground before Von Steuben, just as they had all those months before. Pierre makes no small talk, but then, he hadn’t made much in January either. For his part, Alexander does not speak up; for all that the morning has gone as planned so far, he worries that his plans must be be scrawled across his face like one of the inked tattoos he’d grown up seeing on the sailors in Glasgow. _Murderer._

So, instead of talking, Alexander stands and regards the assembled soldiers. He realizes with a start that they bear very little resemblance to the groups they’d trained before. This group stands tall; their uniforms are clean. Their rifles are polished and held tight in the crooks of their arms. The rebels have moved on, even while Alexander was frozen in place.

Pierre starts the drills, and the men move and turn in snappy formation. Alexander waits at the side, his legs already aching faintly in a reminder of their recent disuse.

And then, too soon, Von Steuben appears, entering the clearing in his typical smart uniform, his head held high. The first place he looks is, of course, Alexander. His brows lift in surprise, the motion jeopardizing the line where his wig meets his forehead.

“Colonel Hamilton,” Von Steuben says, stepping close enough to touch. “Bonjour.”

“Monsieur,” Alexander says, straightening and trying to fight the impulse to shrink back. To fall to his knees. He knows Von Steuben will be harder to fool than Pierre; harder than Burr. Burr piles his own expectations on Alexander, giving him something to hide behind, but Von Steuben sees straight through him.

“Vous aviez raison,” Alexander starts. “Je suis désolé.”

The Baron just looks at him, waiting. Alexander clasps his hands behind his back, cold and sweating.

“Thank you for my uncle’s letter,” Alexander continues in a rush of French. “I realize now…I was acting like a child, and I was avoiding you. It was unbecoming, to allow my shame to dictate my actions so. I…if you will have me back, I would be grateful for a second chance.”

There is another long pause; behind them, Pierre is shouting commands, peppered with insults. _“You scrawny dog, stand up like you mean it!”_

“I _am_ lucky,” Alexander adds, a little desperate.

“Yes, you are,” Von Steuben says finally, and then, more stern: “See that you do not forget it again.”

“Yes, Monsieur,” Alexander nods, meeting Von Steuben’s gaze with what he hopes is an abashed and rueful expression. Just as they had earlier, with Burr, the feelings come more naturally than Alexander had expected.

Von Steuben squeezes his shoulder and chucks him once under the chin, gentle. Then he turns to Pierre and the men, and the morning begins.

Alexander scrambles to keep up—to fit back in, to be _useful,_ when for months they’d gotten along just fine in his absence. He can tell Pierre and Von Steuben notice; the former huffs a little when Alexander is slow to translate or stumbles over the words. But Von Steuben smiles with indulgence, and as the hours wear on, the mood holds.

Alexander’s heartbeat races all the while. Could it really have been this easy, to slip back into their confidences?

 

***

 

The Baron, of course, invites him to luncheon.

Alexander sits quietly through the first few meals, stealing glances at Washington (who had smiled to see him, the first day) but otherwise keeping to himself. He translates for Von Steuben when required, but hesitates to offer his own opinions or thoughts. It would not do, at this stage, to cause criticism or draw undue attention.

Burr and the others seem satisfied, for whatever that is worth; unlike Laurens, they do nothing to provoke Alexander at mealtimes. At night, the climate in the aides’ tent has eased a bit, and the rebels no longer halt their conversations in stilted silence the moment that Alexander slips through the flap.

And then, after several days, Washington catches Alexander’s eye across the table. “Colonel, if you are free this evening, I would welcome a game of chess.”

 

***

 

Washington’s tent is surrounded by his honor guard, four of them, swords gleaming silver in the dusky twilight. It is more security than Alexander has seen him have before. Because of Arnold, perhaps? Or, worse, because of Alexander?

“Hamilton to see you, sir!” One says, turned to the tent flap, after Alexander provides his name.

“Come in,” Washington calls, and he stands as Alexander enters. “I am relieved to see you up again, Colonel,” he says. “I’m afraid this isn’t much, when compared to our winter lodgings—a trifle warmer, though, I dare say. Please, be seated; would you care for a drink?”

“Thank you, sir,” Alexander answers with a nod, heartbeat pounding in his ears. “You are most generous.”

“I am glad for the company,” Washington nods in return, pouring them each a measure of whiskey and coming back to the round mahogany table where he’d already laid out the chessboard.

“Nevertheless,” Alexander says, reaching for the red pieces and beginning to set his pawns into place, staring at the squares of the board.  “I…appreciate it, more than you can know.”

There is nothing out of the ordinary in what Alexander has said—he’s sure of it, he is, he’d planned this, after all—but without warning, Washington’s hands still where they are, one on a bishop and one on his king.

“If I may be so bold,” Washington says, releasing the pieces. Alexander straightens his spine against what he knows is to come next, and releases a breath that he had not known he was holding. “May I ask what has troubled you in these last weeks?”

His gaze is keen; eyes dark where they meet Alexander’s.

Alexander takes a moment to respond, letting the question settle. Letting Washington see that it is a serious matter; that Alexander is honest. Trustworthy.

“A crisis of faith,” he says, ignoring how his stomach twists. “It was…difficult, to move with an army not my own, camp to camp. To see battles from the other side. I wavered. I struggled to show patience, to trust that the Lord giveth liberally.”

“The Book of James,” Washington says, a note of approval in his tone. “I hope you know that I could not…that no one could blame you, for having such thoughts. There can be no doubt that this war is a trial, for all of us.”

“Thank you, sir. I am determined, now, to do my best to rejoice in what I have, and to…show my faith with my works.” The words are like stones upon Alexander’s tongue, heavy and poison-slick. He reaches for the whiskey. He drinks.

“That is all any man can do,” Washington says, looking pleased.

They move their pawns.

“Tell me, what is the soil like, where you are from?” Washington says, apropos of nothing, after the game has progressed in silence and he has captured the first of Alexander’s knights.

“Back at Mount Vernon—my farm,” he adds unnecessarily, for this is hardly the first time he’s discussed it with Alexander, “The land closest to the river is quite like a swamp, and the soil too damp for many of the drier grains. Are there such areas, in Scotland? I imagine it with many more rocks, you see, but I have not had the privilege of observing it for myself.”

“It is quite rocky, indeed, sir,” Alexander manages. “I…I’m afraid with my uncle in the shipping business, I did not have much firsthand experience with farming.”

“But surely there was a garden, or you saw such things in the village as you passed. No?” Washington doesn’t wait for a response. “A shame, that. There is nothing quite like tending to your own dirt, your own seeds—watching them grow—your own vines, and trees, as the Bible says.”

Alexander has never grown a thing in his life, between the cramped houses of his boyhood and the cold attic of the Grange. He’d leaned towards books and paper, first, and then he’d moved to the city, where the only fields were paved in gray cobblestone.

“What do you prefer to grow, sir?” He asks, rather than detailing his own inexperience with the topic in question. Washington, as predicted, is more than happy to respond—the match slips away, and then another, until their candles have turned to pools of wax and smoldering wicks.

Alexander, excusing himself and receiving a fond nod from Washington, walks back to the aides’ tent in the dark.

 

***

 

Two days after the first chess match, Mrs. Washington catches him after luncheon, her small hand firm on his elbow. She holds him in place as the other men file out of the cramped dining room in the small wooden farmhouse they've appropriated at the edge of the camp.

“The girls have outdone themselves with the meal today, and should be rewarded with a break. Won’t you help me carry the dishes to the kitchen, Colonel?” she asks, all smile, but he’s not fool enough to think it is a request, not when he’s been deliberately avoiding her gaze for the last few weeks.

(It is his promise to her that weighs heaviest in his mind, during those few dark midnight hours when he allows himself to doubt.)

“Of course, madam,” he says, obliging without complaint and standing still while she stacks plates in his arms. Washington smiles fondly in their direction as he leaves, speaking lowly to Burr.

“Well, that’s that,” Mrs. Washington says finally, when the table is cleared. “Come along, please, Colonel,” she smiles, and Alexander follows her obediently into the kitchen.

He sets the plates in the scullery, careful to pile the silverware to the side so that the whole pile won’t come crashing down.

“I noticed you were absent, for a time,” Mrs. Washington says from behind him, setting her own stack of plates onto the kitchen table and wiping her hands with a dishcloth. “George said you were ill.”

“Something like that, madam,” Alexander answers, turning back to face her and struggling to keep the flush of shame and guilt from his face.

“And now, you are quite well? You were not…mistreated?” She fixes him with a glance, straight on, eyes narrowed. “I know how the men can be.”

“No, madam,” he says hastily. “On the contrary, my situation was of my own doing. I…struggled with accepting my circumstances.”

She softens at the edges. “That is a relief to hear, Colonel. Alexander.” She reaches forward and up, patting his shoulder. “I am sorry, you know, for your situation. My husband is as well.”

“It is neither your fault nor his, madam,” Alexander answers faintly. “It falls upon me to simply accept my lot, and…do what must be done.”

“That is not a kind or pleasant thing, sometimes,” Mrs. Washington says softly, looking him in the eye.

For a second he is petrified—that she might know, that she might see his intentions—and his stomach lurches, and it is all he can do to swallow and look away, hoping that she will take his motion as a simple sign of resignation to his own fate.

“No, madam,” he echoes. “It is not. And I fear that my comportment is…I must apologize to you, and to everyone,” he says in a rush, then, even as he knows he should remain silent. That he should not, with his words, give her any reason to suspect.

But she only smiles. “Think nothing of it,” she says, stepping towards the door. “It is not easy, to be where you are.”

He whispers a thank you, thinking that she will leave, that he will be finally be able to exhale, choking air out past the lump of guilt in his throat. But she turns back, her short, plump form silhouetted in the doorway.

“I am leaving this week,” she says.  “I must go back to the plantation for the summer season; it would not do to leave it unattended.”

“The…plantation?”

“Mount Vernon, of course,” she says, as naturally as could be.

But Alexander knows the weight of that word. Plantation. He knows what it means in St. Croix; he is under no illusions as to what it must mean in Virginia.

All this time, and Washington had not said—that he had not admitted, when he _knew_ how Alexander felt, what Alexander believed—

Disgust rises in his belly, but he swallows it down. It does not matter anyway, not anymore. Alexander has his orders, and his duty, and no room to feel anything. No room for anger; no room for doubt. No room for promises.

“I wish only to say,” Mrs. Washington continues, oblivious to his turmoil, “that you have comported yourself admirably during the time of our acquaintance. Your mother, God rest her soul, would be proud.”

She turns back to him, coming back into the kitchen, and places a light, dry kiss upon his cheek. Then she is gone, out the door and into the hall. Alexander has never felt more despicable in his life.

He’d made her a promise. He had meant it. He had.

But now—well.

 

***

 

**June 1779**

There are two weeks left.

For all of the work that Alexander has done—for the four chess matches, now, and the easy familiarity of a fortnight’s worth of luncheons and long days of training, tiring muscles he’d forgotten he had—for all of the work, he does not have a poison.

Nor does he have the slightest idea of how to acquire one. In Scotland, perhaps, he could have foraged for the plants he knew were harmful. But not here, in this unfamiliar land, with its forests still untamed and primeval.

And then, on the first of June, while Alexander walks back from training, a small boy runs up to his side. He is one of the many children who hover on the edges of the camp; a local farmer’s boy, perhaps, whose hollowed cheeks speak to his hunger and desperation for whatever coin or rations the passing soldiers might throw his way. The boys are a common enough sight; offering to clean boots or lug water in hopes of a boon; a common enough sight that Alexander does not react, not at first.

Alexander’s a few steps back from Von Steuben and Pierre, who is especially cross as it had rained on them for a solid hour during the morning exercises. Usually, the boys run for the most senior officers first—well trained, they are, because General Washington never fails to dig a coin out of his pocket for them. Alexander half turns, expecting the boy to run right past him and tug at the Baron’s sleeve.

But the boy doesn’t, not at all. He simply looks up at Alexander with big, wide eyes; scanning his brown coat with something that looks like fear.

“H—hamilton?” The boy squeaks.

Alexander stops dead.

The boy must see the answer on his face, for without further preamble his grubby hands are reaching for Alexander’s coat, and, in the split second before Alexander moves to shove the boy away, he feels a small shift. The settling of a weight, barely there. The boy has dropped something into his pocket.

“Wait, you—” Alexander hisses, or tries to, before he realizes that he’s still only a few meters back from the others. Before his mind catches up to the situation and what it must mean.

The boy is already gone, however, running away like the devil’s taken him, half-slipping in the mud until, finally, he disappears into the trees.

Alexander is left in a stunned stupor, stomach sick and pocket heavy.

At first, he doesn’t dare reach in and draw it—whatever it is—out. Not during luncheon; not during the long afternoon he spends translating the Baron’s training manual. He waits until that evening, heart racing all the while. Finally, just after sunset, when he knows the aides will be away for several hours yet, he kneels on his bedroll and dips his hand into the depths of the brown wool.

His fingers close on glass, warm from the heat of his body. It is a small vial of amber liquid, topped with a cork—innocuous, on first glance. It could be an oil, or a lady’s perfume. It could be nothing.

But it isn’t. It isn’t nothing; not at all. Alexander swallows and slips in back into his coat. He stands and walks out of the tent quickly—too quickly, if anyone is watching, he admonishes himself, but he gets no further, as a cold sweat has broken out on the planes of his forehead. He takes one step, then another; then turns neatly and vomits into the muck to the right of the tent flap.

 

***

 

It is June sixth. Alexander is brutally, crucially aware of this fact; three weeks have passed, too fast and too slow at once. With every breath he takes, he is reminded that he is running out of time.

It is a Sunday. They are in New York, occupying a gray stone mansion high on the banks of the Hudson near West Point. From what Alexander can tell, the rebels are winning. Alexander stays in the aides’ room, sharing one of the narrow beds with Burr, who had rolled his eyes and waved him over as Alexander had prepared to lie down on the floor the first night. Each evening, the aides return exhausted but triumphant, sharing small, secret grins as they undress. Alexander rolls on his side, facing the wall, and tries not to pay them any mind.

There are five days left on the clock, but Alexander knows it is time. There will be no better opportunity; headquartered in the house as they are, Alexander has unfettered access to Washington’s room. To his food and drink. It is far better than the encampment they’d left a few days ago, where Alexander would have had to bypass the honor guard and the aides in order to access the man himself.

They could move at any time, if Clinton tries to advance. The risks of waiting are too great.

It is early yet, and the General has only just departed for Sunday services down the road. They will not be back for near three hours. The aides are scattered; some sleep, while others have accompanied Washington to church. Tilghman is buried in a lump of linens in their shared bedroom; he snores, facing the wall, and does not stir as Alexander moves.

He pockets the vial quietly, all the same. The weight of it pulls at his breeches like a stone. If he waded into the river, he thinks, it would drag him down.

Alexander walks to Washington’s study unobserved. His heart is pounding in his ears with every step, but not a single kitchen maid crosses his path.

Inside, the curtains are still drawn. Inkpots and half-scrawled letters remain as they were the night before, the parchments pinned into place by brown-ringed tea cups and candlesticks pooled with drips of wax. If Alexander had wanted to read the rebel correspondence, he would have had every chance, unguarded as it is.

But that is not his task.

Alexander straightens—ears ringing, now—and steps forward, once, then again, until suddenly, inevitably, he is standing in front of the small mahogany table where the General keeps his whiskey. The bottles gleam in the near-darkness, and when he reaches for the one closest to empty, the glass feels hot under his hand. Alive.

He pulls out the stopper, swallowing.

He can picture it, of course. Tonight, a chess game, Alexander taking red and Washington white. The offer of whiskey. Alexander will volunteer to fetch it, as he has each day for the past few weeks. He will offer Washington the last of this bottle; naturally, Alexander himself will be content with an inferior selection, one that Washington would typically offer to the aides. Washington will accept graciously; Alexander will bring the glasses to table. They will drink.

Alexander’s fingers find the vial in his pocket. So close, now. He draws it out with his left hand.

A gray haze stretches at the edges of his vision. It takes both hands to uncork the vial, small as it is.

So singular is his focus that he does not hear the footsteps in the corridor. He does not hear the creak of the door in its hinges until it is nearly too late.

He spins in place, vial clutched in his hand, the open whiskey bottle behind him—and it is Washington.

Of course it is Washington.

The desperation rises like bile in Alexander’s throat. He wants to laugh. To cry.

“Sir, should you not be at church,” he manages, for Washington is standing still, mouth slightly open, shock etched into the lines of his face.

For all that Alexander had prepared himself for the act—for Washington’s breath to stutter, for his hands to knock about the chess pieces as they seized, kings and queens crashing to the floor, for his skin to tinge blue and his eyes to go blank—he had not prepared himself for this.

“Blueskin threw a shoe,” Washington says, and then, “What are you doing in here, Hamilton, this is most…”

He trails off as the realization hits. His eyes dart around the room, taking in the strewn correspondence, the letters carelessly left open for anyone’s perusal. But no; his gaze returns to Alexander. To the table, with the open bottle of whiskey behind him. To Alexander’s fist.

Washington reaches behind himself, pushing the door closed. He does not draw his gun.

“ _Son_ ,” he says.

Alexander does laugh, then. How can he not? It is bitter and rasping and loud in the silence of the study, and he has no words with which to follow it. There is nothing left to say.

Washington listens to Alexander break. His face hardens. He stands taller, not yielding even a single inch of the space he fills. Something settles over him— _majesty,_ Alexander thinks, his own breath choking in his throat. Alexander hasn’t seen it before, as casual as they have been. He has not seen Washington the commander, the god among men. Until now.

“Attention, Colonel,” Washington barks. Alexander’s spine snaps straight and his hands fly to the small of his back of their own accord.

“Whatever it is you are holding, put it down,” Washington orders, cold. The air is gone from Alexander’s lungs—all laughter forgotten—and he has no choice but to obey. He reaches blindly behind his back for the table and fumbles the open vial atop it. His hands shake too much to keep it upright, and when he lets go it clinks sideways and then to the floor, shattering into a thousand tiny, pin-sharp slivers of glass.

He cannot see it, locked at attention as he is, but he knows the poison will be everywhere, now, dripping from the edge of the table and staining the wood floor.

It is over.

  
  



	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> huge thanks to [herowndeliverance](http://archiveofourown.org/users/atheilen) for the fastest of fast betas and to [iniquiticity](http://archiveofourown.org/users/iniquiticity) for keeping me writing today!

 

After the glass shatters, there is silence for a full minute. Perhaps two. Alexander stares at the floor, frozen in place.

“Is that…” Washington starts, his voice breaking. He runs a hand down his face, the movement jagged and abortive in the periphery of Alexander’s vision. “That is poison.”

“Yes,” Alexander croaks, legs weak.

“And you,” Washington continues, gravelly and rasping, as if Alexander had not spoken at all. “You…no,” he stops cold, turns on his heel, then turns again, leaving Alexander standing rigidly in place. 

“Sir, I…”

“Quiet,” Washington barks. He paces, three steps one way and two steps another, the confined width of the room only serving to emphasize his great height. 

Alexander wants to close his eyes. Wants to sink into the floor, then the foundation beneath, until the loam and dirt steal his breath and he never has to open his eyes again.

“You should have  _ told _ me,” Washington says next, wholly unexpected. 

Alexander opens his mouth, half plea and half gasp for air.

“No,” Washington says sharply. “Don’t say a word. Don’t move. I am—I am going to step into the hall and speak with whichever of the aides I can find, and  _ you,  _ you are going to stand right there and not move a muscle. Am I clear?”

He looms forward as he says it, voice nearly at a shout.

“Yes, sir,” Alexander answers faintly, legs trembling now. Washington is just going to  _ leave _ him here?

Washington clips out a nod and turns back to the door. He reaches for the knob, and for a split second he pauses, spine expanding and then settling. Something falls over his expression—no, no, over his entire bearing—and by the time he steps through the open door and into the hallway, the Washington of a few moments ago is gone, replaced again by the Commander in Chief.

“Ah, Colonel Burr,” Washington calls, tone level; though he’s out of view, Alexander knows he cannot have walked more than a few steps away.

“Yes, sir?” Burr asks placidly, but Alexander’s clasped palms break into a sweat at the sound nonetheless. Washington is going to  _ tell _ him, and if someone else knows, this will be  _ real— _ Burr will  _ kill _ him—

“I am suffering from a headache, and feel quite unwell. I wish to rest in my study in darkness and quiet. See to it that I am quite undisturbed, please,” Washington says instead, in the same normal register as before.

There’s a tiny pause, and Alexander can almost picture it, Burr eyeing his commander in shrewd suspicion.

“Of course, sir,” Burr replies, smooth as velvet. “It will be done.”

“Thank you, Aaron,” Washington says next, and then Alexander hears his footsteps returning, even as Burr’s fade into the distance. Washington re-enters the room, shoulders squared, and locks the door, the key turning with a rusted scrape.

And then Washington’s eyes fall squarely on Alexander, who has made the mistake of looking up. They are dark, filled with more disappointment than rage. In all the months of their acquaintance—from that first fateful day in the woods to their long walks and chess matches in the dark of winter—Alexander has not seen that expression before. 

He falls to his knees, swallowing a wince as he hits the wooden floor. He forces himself to look up, neck vulnerable and bare.

Washington stands still, unarmed and motionless.

“Please, sir, I’m sorry,” Alexander tries, guilt and shame unspooling themselves so quickly in his stomach that he thinks he will surely vomit. Washington is silent, and Alexander opens his mouth to continue.  _ I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I had no choice— _

“Don’t beg,” Washington cuts him off, holding up a hand. He takes a step, then another, and sits in one of the armchairs near the hearth, facing Alexander.

“Sir, please—”

“I mean it, Hamilton. I—Christ,” Washington says, shaking his head. “Listen for a moment.”

Alexander’s mouth closes, as if of its own accord. 

“When we met,” Washington starts, slow. “You respected the code of war; you did not shoot me, or hang me without trial. You gave me food and water and put me upon your own horse. You were scared—you were—are—young. But you were not cruel. And in these last months, you’ve kept your promises, supped at my table, and dealt fairly with my men. With my wife. I have no reason to suspect that you wished for—” Washington gestures at the floor behind Alexander. At the broken glass. “ _ This _ to happen.”

Then he refocuses. “Look at me, son,” he says, and it’s a more serious tone; almost deadly.

_ I’m not your son,  _ Alexander thinks, but he looks. 

“If I am wrong,” Washington continues, “If this was your plan all along, and you have simply bided your time, the viper waiting to strike, you must look me in the eye and tell me so.”

“And what would you  _ do,”  _ Alexander interrupts, in a desperate voice that sounds nothing like his own.

“Kill you, of course,” Washington says, level, without a hint of regret. “I thought of it, you know. I thought about snapping your neck in the woods that day—you’re slight enough. It would have been easy. It will not be so easy now, but I would do it, if this plot came from you. I must. I would hardly have another option.”

“And if I….if I said it did not come from me,” Alexander asks, pulse racing. His hands are worrying at each other, at the back of his shirt, the waistband of his breeches, anything he can touch and twist and cling to. He doesn’t notice the pull of the fabric against his fingertips.

“Then you need only explain,” Washington answers. “For though our views are irreconcilable, and though neither one of us can deny the situation in which we find ourselves, I do not make a habit of killing innocent men.”

Alexander is instantly and abruptly thrown back in time, to his camp on that last, fatal night, when Washington had curried and soothed Gulliver as if he were his own steed.  _ It is hardly his fault, Colonel, _ Washington had said. 

Alexander sags.

He is ruined either way. Has been, from the moment that the letter arrived—no, earlier. From the moment he’d encountered Washington in the woods. It was always going to end like this, in desperation and abject failure. In death.

But Washington—Alexander takes a breath and looks up at him. Washington and his wife, traitors though they are, had treated him fairly. Alexander can admit that, now. The promises which they had extracted from him, even though he felt trapped at the time, had been reasonable and just. They deserved more than assassination, more than some smuggled poison or knife in the night.

(They are slavers, too, his thoughts remind him. But even that—well. Alexander is not so much a fool to think that killing one plantation owner would end the practice. It must be systemic change; it must be abolition, fairly won and supported by all parties. Not murder.)

Alexander exhales.

“There was a letter,” he says, quietly. “The Baron brought it to me. He thought it was from my uncle; I don’t know how he got it. But when I opened it, it…”

“Go on.”

“It said I must do my King and country proud. And then one day I was outside and a boy ran up and slipped the vial into my pocket,” he continues, the words spilling out in a rush. “I swear, I don’t know where it is from, I don’t even know what kind it is, or how they knew where I was or how to reach me. I never wrote, I never tried to send a message to them, I never thought this would happen.”

For a long time, Washington does not reply. Alexander holds steady, trying to breathe. His kneecaps dig into the floor, aching. His muscles burn tightly where his nerves have bunched them into place. 

“Why,” Washington asks, finally, so much weight tied to the single word that Alexander can only bow his head in shame.

“It was an order,” he starts, eyes skittering over the beams of the floor.

“Don’t give me that, Hamilton. Don’t kneel there and beg and then have the nerve to proffer excuses.” Washington cuts him off, anger sparking and crackling in the air between them. “You owe me more than that, son,” he finishes, loudly—too loudly, but for his orders to Burr that the room be left alone.

It is like a slap to the face. 

_ I owe you?  _ Alexander thinks indignantly, his turmoil and fear forgotten in a moment of shock. No. At most, they owe each other, their fates having been so entwined—Alexander hasn’t forgotten the clearing, the crunch of leaves under his boots, coming upon a rebel General with his eyes closed—

The sparks reach his face, his throat, his chest, and he’s brimming with it, now, like lightning—

“I’m not your son,” Alexander says fiercely, not trying to hold it in. Not anymore.

Washington’s eyes flash, but Alexander does not stop, his voice rising.

“I didn’t have a choice!” 

“You had a hundred choices! A thousand! You could have  _ told  _ me, not tried to  _ kill  _ me,” Washington shouts back, standing from his chair and looming over Alexander, hand balled into fists.

“You wouldn’t understand! You have your name, your titles, your  _ plantation _ ,” Alexander spits it out, venomous, and doesn’t miss Washington’s flinch. “You know nothing of me! You act as though we have a friendship between us, but we are opposites!”

“Yes, for you’ve never learned  _ gratitude,  _ and I’m not blinded by the pride of my temper!” Washington retorts. “You—I saved your life, I brought you into this house, I was going to send you back to your family alive and whole!”

“You know nothing about my family!” Alexander yells, surging to his feet, no match for Washington in height but straining forward all the same—

“Then  _ tell _ me, son!”

“Call me son  _ one more time—”  _

“And what?” Washington says quietly, and just like that, Alexander knows in his bones that the moment is over. That he has gone too far.

Washington steps back, scrubbing a hand over his face. “You’ll try to kill me?” He laughs once, bitter, and steps back to retake his seat in the chair. He sinks into it, making no effort to hold himself with a General’s posture.

Alexander is left standing in the middle of the room, hands that he had fisted now hanging limp at his side. 

“Go on, then, Hamilton. Try to kill me. If it is what you truly desire, I’ll not stop you,” Washington says, still soft. 

For a long, long moment, all Alexander can hear is the rhythm of his own heartbeat. He can see no further than Washington, in front of him; he could not say where the hearth lies, or the door. The room has fallen away; the house has disappeared; the camp and battlefields are lost.

And then he begins to see in flashes—the letter, the boy, the vial of poison. Mrs. Washington, wiping her hands on her apron. Burr, looking grim as ever but his body a warm weight at Alexander’s back. The Baron, cursing. Washington at the chessboard, rolling Alexander’s captured castle in his fingers.  _ Checkmate. _

“It isn’t,” Alexander whispers, sinking back down to his knees. “It isn’t, sir,” he repeats, louder, keeping his head studiously down. 

“I didn’t think so,” Washington replies, and he sounds as exhausted as Alexander feels.

A minute passes in silence, then two, until Alexander cannot bear it any longer.

“What do we do now, sir?” 

“You will go to prison,” Washington answers, level and plain. “There is nothing for it. I cannot keep you here.”

Imagining it and hearing it are entirely different matters, Alexander finds, and he cannot keep his eyes from flying up with anxiety.

“Sir, I swear, I will not attempt to harm you again—”

“It is not about you, Hamilton, for Christ’s sake—stop worrying about your damned honor for just a moment,” Washington says, though it’s not unkind. “Can you not see it? To keep you here, and me alive, would only serve to inform your commanders that you did not attempt your mission. That you are a traitor to the crown. They’ll hang you the moment the war is over.”

“A traitor to the crown,” Alexander echoes after a beat. “You—after everything, you are trying to keep me alive?”

“Have you never listened to me at all? I told you, that first day in our headquarters,” Washington responds with frustration. “I have always intended to treat you with respect and honor. I have never intended to see you harmed, though you have certainly failed to show any appreciation for my efforts to send you home to Scotland in one piece.”

“It’s not my home.” The words slip out faster than Alexander feels them form on his tongue. Accidental. Disastrous.

“Ah,” Washington says, slowly, and when his eyes meet Alexander’s they are deep with understanding. “You know, I believe that is the most honest thing you have ever said to me.”

“I assure you, sir, that my opinions of Jefferson and Paine were entirely honest,” Alexander manages numbly.

To his surprise, Washington laughs—a real laugh this time, not one of the broken bitter sounds that have punctuated their confrontation. 

“Get up, s—Hamilton. Take a seat. I would invite you to have a drink, but—” Washington looks pointedly at the poison-stained side table, where the targeted whiskey bottle sits open with menacing promise. Alexander stands stiffly, feeling the bruises that must surely be sunken into his knees by now. He takes a seat in the chair at Washington’s side, and tries not to flinch as Washington angles his own chair to face Alexander dead-on.

“You never answered my question,” Washington says, his voice quiet but his eyes locked on Alexander’s. “Why?” 

He raises a hand to forestall Alexander’s objection. “Honesty, please, as this is to be our last day together. I can accept that whatever letter you received contained an order, but I should like to know why you saw this path as your only choice. I will not say that you  _ owe  _ me the truth, Hamilton. But you cannot stop me from asking for it, and from promising that whatever is said now between us will remain private for as long as I shall live.”

Alexander swallows. He is thirteen again, half-starved, the hunger buried so deep beneath his ribs that he cannot remember what it was to be full. Cannot remember what life was like before the sickness, before Maman and Jamie and the boat. He is stepping into the parish church at Stevenston, shaken, head spinning, knowing to his bones that he has one shot, one chance to do this right, to say the right things to God and Uncle John and leave the past behind him—

He’s not spoken a word of the truth, since then. Not to anyone.

And now Washington is looking at him, kind and expectant,  _ after everything,  _ and Alexander is here, twenty-four and traitorous, with nothing left to lose. Maybe it would be easier, if Washington understood. If someone knew. Maybe in the speaking of his sins, God would listen and offer him deliverance.

“I have nothing,” he says, the words rising in his throat, threatening to choke him. “I never have. I don’t have parents, or money, or land. I don’t have a house or books or anything but these borrowed clothes I’m wearing. Gulliver isn’t truly mine; he belongs to the Army, for all that I trained him and broke him in myself.”

He tries to breathe.

“I had the Army. I thought I did, at least. I was going to finish the war as a full Colonel, and back in Scotland I would have a reputation and a pension I could live on. I’d have to find work, of course, but I could do that. Many officers stay until old age. It isn’t what I had dreamt of as a boy, but I thought it would—I thought it would work. I was going to earn it for myself, and no one could—” He pauses, realizing that he’s holding the chair so tightly that his knuckles have gone white. “No one could take that away, or challenge it in court.” 

(Alexander was old enough to remember what happened when Maman died. When her real husband swept in and took it all, and the magistrate and the neighbors and everyone, everyone,  _ everyone _ on the island looked away.)

“And I…when I found you in the woods, I wasn’t thinking. You were right. I should have let it go,” Alexander shakes his head. “I could have been satisfied with a retirement. With my lot. I could have—I should have been satisfied. But if anyone found out that I had you there and let you walk away, I would have lost everything, don’t you see?”

He breaks off, looking up at Washington, knowing that his desperate hope must be audible in his voice and hating himself for it.

“Yes,” Washington answers softly. “You had to make a decision, and neither outcome was favorable.”

“It didn’t matter in the end, though,” Alexander says after a pause. “For you and your men were a greater opponent than me and mine, and the life I had hoped for after the war was destroyed forever. When the letter came, I—”

He falters, mouth dry, and looks away.

“I—it would have redeemed me, in the Army’s eyes. My reputation would be restored. And I am selfish enough that I wanted that.”

“You would have died in the attempt,” Washington says into the silence that follows. “Surely, you know that. If your plan was to poison me here, while we drank over a game of chess, you would have been found with my body and you would have been cut down where you stood.”

“I know,” Alexander nods, and he’d visualized that, too, so many times that it feels like a memory. The sickening thump as Washington’s body fell to the floor, the clatter of the chess pieces. The aides rushing in, swords and guns drawn. Alexander, closing his eyes.

“Your life was not worth saving, then?” Washington asks; his tone is gentle, though. Not challenging.

“I…I wanted…if I did this, my legacy would be secure. Infamy, here, but a legacy nonetheless. I would be remembered.”

“And that was the most important thing?” Washington, again, and Alexander turns to meet his eyes.

“It is all I have. All I had.”

Washington is quiet at that. 

“History is always watching us, it is true,” he says, after enough time has passed that Alexander is beginning to fear he’d imagined the entire conversation. “You remember what I told you, about the war with the French?”

Alexander nods, thinking back to their walk, all those months ago. 

“Perhaps I did not say it plainly enough,” Washington continues. “The blame for that incident, and the deaths of my men, fell squarely upon my shoulders. There were no orders I could hide behind; the choices were mine.”

He looks away for a second, and Alexander sees him swallow with the memory.

“At the time, I thought I would never regain my honor. I knew that when I went back to Virginia, everyone in my acquaintance would have heard the story of my role in our defeat. I wanted to die. After...well. It took time, I’ll not deny that. But soon enough, people forgot. I rejoined the Army, and my new commanders did not reference Ohio. I learned that there was more to live for than simply reputation. Your family. Your friends. Perhaps children of your own one day. You cannot control what will be said of you in books, hundreds of years from now, so you must go on living your life.”

“I don’t have—”

“I know, you said you don’t have any family,” Washington interrupts gently. “But you have spoken of your uncle, and I am sure that he still bears you affection, despite your rift.”

Alexander shakes his head without thinking. “He cannot. He would not, at any rate, if he knew the truth,” he says, revealing too much even as his words give away no facts at all.

Washington simply looks at him, keen and patient. They are past the point of forced confessions.

“I am a bastard,” Alexander says slowly, the sounds bitter as they are dragged across his tongue. “Born when his brother lay with a married woman in the Caribbean, and then disappeared and left her shamed and destitute.”

“And I am a barren old man, unable to father children of my own blood,” Washington returns, meeting Alexander’s gaze head on and without an ounce of shame. “My wife loves me no less for it. Affection is built between people, and grows over time—it is neither a product nor a casualty of a simple appellation.”

Alexander stares at him, blindsided. That he would so dismiss such a fundamental problem, one which can never be solved—that he would treat it as normal—

“I mean it,” Washington says, as if he is reading Alexander’s thoughts. “When you return to Scotland, after the war, go to your uncle. Talk to him. You will see.”

“With all due respect, sir, I don’t think he will want to see me,” Alexander manages. 

“He will. I may not be a father by blood, but I have children,” Washington says, something shuttered in his expression speaking of loss. Alexander knows better than to investigate it further. “You will just have to believe me, young man,” he finishes. “The future is never as closed off as you think.”

A few minutes tick by in silence. Alexander, fully clothed, feels more naked and vulnerable than he has ever felt in his life. 

“What comes next, sir?” he asks finally. Outside the window panes, the sun has risen to high noon. They cannot hide from the camp forever.

“If you are to survive, we must tell the truth,” Washington says. “Or a version of it, anyway. You attempted to poison me, but were caught. You will be imprisoned, until such time as an exchange or the end of the war. I will dismiss the incident as inconsequential, and leave orders that you be left alone until your transfer to British authorities.”

“And you think...you think your men will obey?” Alexander thinks of Laurens, and doubts it.

“We are winning,” Washington says, frankly. “It will not be long now until the war is over. While we fight, they will not risk my wrath.”

Of course the rebels will win, after everything. Alexander inhales sharply.  _ It doesn’t matter. _

“All right,” he finds himself saying, instead of asking all of the questions that have sprung into his mind about the rebel campaign.

Washington nods, curt and decisive. “I will confer with the aides, and order a prison wagon. You should wait here. I am sorry, Hamilton,” he continues. “For this is the end, and I do not think that our paths will cross again.”

Washington rises, and Alexander cannot help but notice that it is more slowly than he typically moves. Alexander follows suit, and as soon as they are upright, face to face, Washington reaches out a hand.

As improbable and impossible as it is, only mere hours after he’d woken this morning, poison weighing his pocket like a stone, Alexander reaches out and shakes it. 

“It has been an honor,” Washington says, soft. “And--for what it is worth, I  _ am  _ sorry.”

And, after a beat, “I am too, sir,” Alexander says, and it’s all he can do not to look away.

Washington gives him a nod, and a last, long, searching look. Then he releases Alexander’s hand and moves for the door. He does not look back.

 

***

 

At least an hour passes, the slow ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner of Washington’s study echoing in the silence like the tolls of a church bell. 

And then the door opens, and Alexander lurches to his feet. If Washington is back already, it can only mean that the prison wagon is not far. Alexander’s time has run out.

But it’s not Washington, not at all. It’s Burr, standing in the shadow of the doorway.

“Colonel,” Alexander says, surprised, faltering for a moment.

“His Excellency came to see me.” There’s something curled under Burr’s tone. Something with  _ teeth. _

“Burr, listen, wait,” Alexander starts, but Burr is already stepping forward into the light, and now Alexander can see him fully, can see the hollows under his eyes and the way his hands tremble on his gun—oh, God, he’s drawn his gun—

“I shared a  _ bed _ with you,” Burr snarls, and then, in the space of a breath—faster than Alexander can move, faster than he can cry out—he shoots.

The impact is shattering.

  
  



	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks to [herowndeliverance](http://archiveofourown.org/users/atheilen)!
> 
> please note additional tags. thanks! as always, feel free to message me on tumblr.

**June 1779  
**   


It takes an hour to scrub the blood from the floor. By the time Aaron stands, his arms ache and his hands are red-raw and stinging from the lye.

_ No matter _ , he thinks. By the time the General returns this evening, his office will be set to rights. The body, which had been still gasping and twitching in the throes of death as the honor guards tossed it into the prison cart, will be long gone.

Aaron cleans the shattered glass, too, and carefully, through a double layer of rags, the stains that must be from the poison. Despite the heat outside, he opens first the windows and then the chimney flue. He lights the fire and tosses the soiled rags into the flames. 

Then he sits, calmly, and sharpens his quill. He has so much to do.

When the General returns after supper, his face paler and more drawn than usual, he pauses in the doorway.

“It has all been taken care of, sir,” Aaron says, looking up from the desk. He realizes, distantly, that his ears are still ringing from the shot.

“Quite,” the General manages, after a beat, and he steps inside and settles into a chair, accepting the stack of prepared letters that Aaron holds up in his direction. 

Aaron has never been an expert in reading the General’s expression, much to his chagrin, but he thinks it holds something like regret.

_ No matter. _

 

***

 

**July 1779  
**   


The war continues apace, messengers and letters and Generals circling the headquarters at all hours, and Aaron completes his duties just as surely as he had before.

Aaron does not tell the General; not at first, at least. For all that it was the just and necessary thing to do, he knows he must wait for the correct time to break the news. So, as the days pass, he says nothing; he gives the honor guards who’d carried the body to the wagon coin for their silence. 

The General does not speak of it, either, until he pauses on his way out of his office one night and sets a sealed letter gently onto Aaron’s desk.

“Sir?” Aaron looks up, lifting his quill from the missive he is writing to Congress. 

“If you would indulge me, Colonel,” the General says, quiet and tired, “This is for Colonel Hamilton. Please see to it that it is sent to the prison camps, and inform me of any response.”

Aaron is stunned. Stung. That the General would write to the redcoat—that their personal bond was such to merit a letter in the General’s own hand—it is unthinkable. Especially when the General had left it to Aaron to do what was dirty and required.

But it presents an opportunity, and Aaron would be a fool not to take it.

“Of course,” he says, reminding himself to offer a small smile. “Good night, sir.”

He takes the letter as the General leaves, and two weeks later, it is as natural as anything to gravely break the unfortunate news he’d “received from the prison warden” regarding a sudden illness that had swept through the camp, leaving a dozen officers fallen in its wake.

“That’s impossible,” the General breathes, face gone bloodless and gray. “He cannot have simply— _ died. _ ” 

“My apologies, sir,” Aaron lies smoothly in response, standing stiff at attention. “It would seem the sanitation of the camps leaves something to be desired, and illness spreads quickly—”

“Leave me, please, Colonel,” the General cuts him off, ignoring his words completely. As Aaron departs, he can see the General reaching shakily for a bottle of whiskey.

 

***

 

**September 1779  
**   


They win at Stono Ferry.  They repel raids in Connecticut, the news of the victories streaming in one by one. New Haven. Fairfield. Norwalk. They win at Stony Point; at Minisink. They win in Massachusetts and New Jersey. As autumn arrives, buoyed by their string of success in the north, they break the siege of Savannah.

As the weeks pass and the victories rack up, however, Aaron does not relax. It is too easy to imagine the betrayals and losses which might have been--which could still be, if the redcoats succeeded in slipping another traitor deep into their camp. Aaron does not dare grow complacent. After all, their own damned complacency is what led to that moment in June when the trigger had pulsed under Aaron’s touch and blood had sprayed warm and slick across his face.

So Aaron stays tense and tightly wound, waiting. Nearby, the General’s temper grows sour. He paces. He ignores the aides at mealtimes and snaps if he is disturbed in the evening. It carries over to his letters; the orders that he dictates grow short and ruthless. He sends his armies into battle with none of the thoughtful consideration he’d used in years past. 

Even for Aaron, who is not one to shy away from doing what must be done, the change is alarming.

“Sir,” Aaron tries one morning, certain that he has just penned a death warrant for a battalion in North Carolina. “If they attack before Colonel Harding’s forces are able to reinforce them from Raleigh, the casualties will be—”

“They will  _ all _ die if we lose,” the General interjects, not even looking at Aaron. “Send the orders.”

Aaron grits his teeth and does as he is told. 

As the weeks wear on, Aaron forgets what it means to truly sleep. The General’s demands grow more frequent; more cutting. The aides work at a breakneck pace with no regard for the hour, and the General offers no respite. It is as if the smooth, polite edges of his temper have been chipped off into a jagged, broken pattern, one that no one—not Aaron, certainly, and not Baron Von Steuben, who looks continually puzzled at his friend’s sudden disdain for mealtimes and laughter—can decipher.

In the few moments he steals outside of the General’s office, though, Aaron can feel the change upon the air. Victory—real success—is almost within their grasp. If reinforcements were to arrive, the war would not last the winter. They could have peace; they could  _ win. _ But even as Aaron revels in this, he knows it cannot be. 

For all of their victories on the battlefield, they simply do not have the men to force a British surrender. Lafayette is still in France, and with the shipping routes as they are, he is unlikely to arrive before the following spring. In his letters, he speaks of Rochambeau, of Franklin, of the promise of men, guns, and ships. Wondrous, welcome things. Things which will arrive too late.

“Write him back,” the General says, immediately, when Aaron comes to the end of Lafayette’s latest letter. The General stands by the empty hearth, back turned to the aides as they scrawl away.

“They will not make it here in time, sir,” Aaron objects. “We must seek out another source of strength for the next few months. There must be something—”

“Colonel,” the General cuts him off. Aaron bristles, mouth snapping closed. “It does not matter that they will not be here in time,” the General continues. “We must only make Clinton  _ think _ that they will be. Write back to the Marquis. Tell him that the French pledges must no longer be a secret—the word must be spread far and wide. It must reach the British court—it must reach their fleet.”

“Would it not be better to plan our defense for the winter, sir?” Aaron tries, even as he reaches for parchment. He has not won any of these arguments; not in weeks.

“Colonel,” the General draws out. He turns from the fireplace, fixing a stern and impenetrable gaze upon Aaron. 

For a moment, and despite himself, Aaron fears what will come next. A  _ do as you’re told _ , perhaps, or  _ do not make me repeat myself, son _ or some other string of humiliating words that the General will use to remind Aaron of his place. A flush rises hot on his neck.

The General has never acknowledged him, not truly, not even on that night all those months ago when Aaron stared him down across a kitchen table. If the General  _ had _ taken him seriously, or had shown a single ounce of god-damned self-preservation, well—this entire mess with Ha—with the redcoat would not have happened. The General would not have simply left the murderous interloper in his study, bound for the too-kind fate of a prison camp. 

Aaron would not have had to step in.

“Of course, sir,” Aaron clips out before the General can continue. He picks up his quill.

 

*******

 

**December 1779**

 

The General’s plan works. News of the “French fleet” begins to spread even among their own camp, and as winter sets in Aaron knows the redcoats must be reevaluating their positions. 

Between the rumors of oncoming ships and the realities of redcoat losses in the North--where the General continues to use West Point to his full advantage, seeming to take the redcoats by surprise with every new skirmish--Aaron thinks it will not be long now.

And then, finally, the messenger arrives on the morning after the first snow, galloping over the white-dusted country roads to the General’s headquarters with his blue coattails flying.

Aaron, seated at his desk with a half-finished letter in hand, sights him through the frosted window panes. His hand stills, and tension curls in the pit of his stomach. Is it time? Could it be over, so soon? Sooner than Aaron had ever expected, certainly, when he’d joined the Army only four years ago.

The door crashes open.

“Sir,” the messenger gasps, running into the General’s office in a grievous breach of propriety that sends Aaron jerking upright from his chair. “Sir, you must read—it’s General Clinton, sir, he’s—”

_ Surrendered. _

It echoes against the wood floor. Against the paneled walls. Against the broad shoulders of the General himself, who stands up slowly, inch by inch.

“Read it,” the General orders, low, his tone not betraying his feelings for an instant. “Burr. Read it.”

And so it is Aaron who reaches his numb hands for the letter; not Tilghman, whose mouth has fallen open in plain disbelief. Not Laurens, who has only just returned from the South for the winter. 

“General Washington,” Aaron begins, standing tall and clearing his throat. “I propose a halt to all conflict for one week, to commence on the eleventh day of December. If your Excellency agrees, I shall send two officers to Morristown on that day for the purpose of developing and agreeing upon articles of capitulation.”

Having come to Clinton’s signature, Aaron looks up.

All the blood has drained from the General’s face. One of his hands grips the edge of the desk, knuckles white. 

“You,” the General orders, low, eyeing the messenger. “Get a fresh horse and a new coat. Be outside in five minutes, ready to ride. Go,” he ends in a sharp command, sending the man scurrying out the door. 

He turns to Aaron, forgetting the other aides entirely. “We write back. Now.”

Aaron grasps for a new parchment. The General does not wait.

“To His Excellency General Clinton, commanding his Britannic majesty’s forces in North America,” he begins, tone grave. “I have had the honor of receiving your Excellency’s letter of this date. An ardent desire to spare the further effusion of blood will readily incline me to agree to a meeting at Morristown. I look forward to hearing your terms for capitulation. I have the honor to be your most obedient and humble servant.”

Aaron’s quill moves fast and true.  _ If I am remembered for nothing else in history, _ he thinks, selfish and bitter,  _ at least I shall be remembered for this. _

  
  


*******

  
  


**November 1788**

**New York City**

 

There’s something in the air. A current, perhaps. An unseasonable breeze. 

Aaron is distracted, working as he is on a complicated case of speculation against one of the wealthiest families in Poughkeepsie. He has just been up to a bank in Harlem to copy its records, line by line, and his hands ache from more than just the November weather.

(His practice is finally thriving, nearly a decade after the war. He’d worked for it, of course, fighting through trial after trial as he built his reputation. His first few clients had come to him because they knew of his position during the war, but by now they came to him based on his name alone.)

As he continues south, he starts to hear the whispers, drifting up from groups of people milling on the streets.  _ Did you hear? The General is in town. Our new President. There will be a parade in his honor, surely, or a winter’s ball. Did you hear? He will have landed at the Battery, his carriage must be making its way north— _

Aaron turns his collar up against the cold and walks faster, his papers clutched under his arm. There are a few hours left in the day yet, and he may have a new client waiting. It hardly matters what the General is doing now. Aaron hasn’t seen the man in years. He’d called upon Aaron the first few times he’d visited the city after the war—out of a misplaced sense of duty, most likely. But they’d had little to discuss and less to offer each other. 

And then, as the General was pulled to Philadelphia for the Constitutional Conventions (all four of them, which had started in ’83 and dragged on through ’87, all parties failing time and time again to agree), Aaron had remained hard at work. He’d married Theodosia; they’d had a daughter. Life had gone on.

It isn’t that Aaron is not interested in politics, of course. He’d always thought of higher office, eventually. But it hardly made sense to throw himself headlong into the fray, not when he had a family to care for and there was money to be made in the city. Not when he could wait for the infighting to end. Wait for the system to settle. And now, a full ten years after the war ended, they finally have the bones of a system in place.  _ The Madison Constitution _ , the papers call it, for apparently a small man from Virginia had finally brought the South to heel. The General is to be President; not that this matters in the least to Aaron.

By the time Aaron reaches his small, cramped office, he is wholly absorbed in his case and the arguments which will be necessary for a conviction. He is not expecting it whatsoever, then, when he steps inside to hang his coat and the General himself is there, sitting awkwardly in one of the too-small chairs that Aaron has scrounged for his clients.

The sight of him conjures a strange, sick guilt in the pit of Aaron’s stomach, as it has since that June day all those years ago.

“Colonel Burr,” the General says quickly, as if startled, as he stands and claps Aaron familiarly on the shoulder.

“Sir,” Aaron answers, just as the General continues and asks after his health. They are a beat out of sync, as always.

“I am well, thank you,” Aaron responds, anyway, gesturing for the General to sit and making his own way around the desk to his own cherry-wood chair. He sets the speculator’s bank records aside. “To what do I owe the honor of your visit, sir?”

The General—who looks significantly older, now, though Aaron supposes that is what happens when you do not see someone in nearly seven years—scrubs a hand down his face. 

“I—ah. You’ll have heard about the election,” he says, almost ruefully. Aaron nods. 

“Well, I am assembling a cabinet,” the General says then, and there is just enough in his tone that Aaron realizes, suddenly, where this is going.

“They say you are a good lawyer, succinct and persuasive,” the General continues blithely, oblivious to how Aaron has frozen in place. “And with your service in the war, you are well-regarded. I had thought—would you consider joining the government as my Attorney General?”

The question lingers in the air for a moment, untouched, and then—

“No, sir.”

The words ring out before Aaron realizes that he has spoken.

The General flinches back, astonished. 

“No,” Aaron repeats, and again, growing in confidence, “No. I thank you for the consideration, but I do not wish to continue in public service.”

_ You could serve at the right hand of the father,  _ Aaron’s younger self whispers in the back of his mind. But he  _ has _ , he  _ did.  _ He was there, in the center of it all, and he did exactly what was necessary and required, but it had not gotten him anywhere except alone on his knees scrubbing blood from the General’s floorboards. It had not earned him respect. It had not made him  _ happy. _

“But Colonel,” the General protests, looking him in the eye with grave concern. “You have always wanted to rise up in the government. To be one of the men in the room where decisions are made. During the war, I thought—”

“You are not wrong, sir,” Aaron interrupts, trying to keep his voice gentle so as not to offend. “I did. Or I thought I did. In the war, serving with you, I had the chance to observe your leadership and the functions of power. I learned greatly from it. But I think I should like something quite different, now.”

“You are certain?”

“I am.” Aaron’s never felt more certain of anything in his life.

They sit silently for a long minute, maybe two. Time enough for the General to have convinced Aaron, if he had tried. If he had really known Aaron at all.

Instead, the General clears his throat and holds out a hand for Aaron to shake. “In that case, Colonel...Aaron,” he corrects, “I wish you all the best in your future endeavors.”

Aaron shakes his hand, and the weight of something indefinable lifts from his shoulders as he slips soundlessly out of the General’s orbit. 

“Will you stay here, in New York?” the General—no, Washington—asks as he stands to leave, looking around the small room that Aaron has rented to serve as an office. He does not survey it with judgment; no. He simply regards it plainly and turns back to Aaron, his shock at Aaron’s choice still evident in his face.

“No.” Aaron pauses for a moment, mind racing. Theodosia is sick, yes, and nothing will change that. But she is well enough for a voyage, and she has always dreamt of the streets of Paris. “No. I don’t think I will.”

 

***

 


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the delay -- this chapter took a lot of work and a lot of conversations with the excellent [herowndeliverance](http://archiveofourown.org/users/atheilen). I hope it lives up to everyone's expectations!

**March 1789  
** **The President-Elect’s House  
** **New York City**

 

The day starts like any other. They rise early for prayers and breakfast before parting ways around eight o’clock, George placing a kiss upon Martha’s cheek. He walks to his office, despite his secretary’s continual complaints that George is putting himself at unnecessary risk by strolling through the brick-lined streets without guards.

Martha, for her part, proceeds to the parlor and awaits the near-constant stream of guests wishing to increase their own standing and prestige by passing a quarter-hour in the presence of Lady Washington herself.

It is exhausting, and had been especially so in the dark hours of the winter, when the parlor grew stale and smoky from the ever-present fire. At least it is warming outside, now, and the fresh air and open windows soothe the edges of Martha’s temper.

Around half-past eleven, having successfully ushered Mrs. Knox out of the parlor, Martha pauses for tea. She stands to stretch her legs and wring out her fingers, locked up as they are after hours of needlepoint. But even as she steps over to the sideboard to refill her teacup, she hears the clatter of footsteps in the hall as Lettie opens the front door to welcome a guest. Martha turns back to face the hall, bracing herself for yet another visitor. She exhales once and carefully plasters a smile on her face—welcoming, motherly, gentle. The perfect wife.

She is prepared for the worst, but only a moment later Betsey Marshall flies into the parlor with a radiant expression on her face.  Betsey is one of Martha’s favorites—has been, ever since the long winters of the war, when Betsey and her ilk had frequented the officers’ balls upstate. Martha had introduced Betsey to John, all those years ago, and a finer match could never be made, so devoted and loyal were they to each other. And now, in the year that Martha has been in New York, Betsey has become a near-daily visitor.

“Good morning, my dear,” Martha exclaims, with a genuine smile this time. She and Betsey exchange kisses, and Betsey steps smoothly to Martha’s elbow and takes over pouring the tea.

“Oh, Mrs. Washington, I have the most wonderful news,” Betsey says, handing Martha her cup.

“Well come here, dear, and tell me! In return, I shall be glad to spare you a recounting of my morning,” Martha answers, pulling Betsey over to the settee.

“I have just received a letter from London. My sister Angelica at this very moment is aboard a ship—she is returning to me,” Betsey smiles, softer now, though her happiness infuses her like a glow. “We have not seen each other since `83, when she and Mr. Church, God rest his soul, left for London. But she has determined to come for the inauguration—she holds General Washington in such high esteem, you see, and Mr. Church’s business partner has agreed to escort her and the children to New York.”

“That  _ is _ wonderful news. You must bring her here, and to the ball—from all you have said, I feel as though I know her already,” Martha answers, both truly happy for Betsey and pleased at the prospect of new attendees at the upcoming festivities. She’s already spent hours in small talk with most of the city women, after all, and she might just scream if she has to spend another party smiling politely at Abigail Adams.

“Thank you, Mrs. Washington,” Betsey answers with a nod; she is silent for a moment, looking down at her tea. When she looks back up, her face has settled into something more serious. Something worried. “I had also hoped—” Betsey starts; falters.

It is quite unlike her, really. Betsey has never been one to shy away from what she wants. 

“Go on, dear,” Martha prods gently. “Whatever it is.”

“I had also hoped that while she is here, you might be willing to give her advice of a…personal nature, ma’am,” Betsey says, blushing slightly. “I do not mean to be too forward. It is only that she has lost her husband, you see, and in the year since I have come to worry for her happiness. Her letters read well enough, but I fear that she may be trying to spare my feelings from the truth of how she must mourn. And I know you were married before you met the President, ma’am. I hope I do not bring up any bad memories,” Betsey ends hastily, looking up at Martha with anxiety evident on her face.

“Do not worry, Mrs. Marshall,” Martha says, squeezing her hand. “My Daniel died more than thirty years ago, now. I mourn him, of course, but I have lived my life in the decades that followed. I will be more than happy to do anything I can to help Mrs. Church. Tell me—was it a love match?”

Betsey pauses. “No,” she says finally, with a small shake of her head. “No. They did elope, and I believe they grew to love each other, but I do not think it was a marriage built on passion.”

_ Good,  _ Martha thinks, surveying Betsey and thinking of her sister. Mrs. Church will be young, yet—young enough to fall in love again. Young enough to rebuild.

The rest of the day passes quickly, between Betsey telling Martha about Mrs. Church and her five children and the inevitable stream of visitors that begin to arrive by late afternoon. 

As she settles into bed for the night, Martha spares a prayer for the widow, who must at that very moment be sailing all the way across the sea.

 

_ *** _

 

**April 1789**

 

As inauguration day approaches, the weather has taken a turn for the worse; though it is warmer, most mornings dawn gray and wet, the heavy air hinting at the storms to come. Martha wakes slowly, bones aching and stiff in the damp. George is no better, his knees popping as he moves to stand beside her.

“How did we grow so old, my love?” Martha complains, donning a dressing robe atop her shift. George hums in response, stepping behind her to circle his arms around her torso and leaning to press a kiss against her hair. 

“Day to day,” he says then, releasing her with a smile. His eyes crinkle more than they use to at the corners, but he looks no less handsome for it. 

“What time will you return to dress for supper at the mayor’s?” she asks, moving to her dressing-table and lifting a boar bristle brush to her hair out of habit. No matter that it will be hidden under the wig later; she likes the soothing, gentle pull.

“Likely at three, or half-past,” George says from behind her. In the cloudy shimmer of the mirror, she can see him stripping from his night clothes and pulling on a fresh cotton shirt from the wardrobe. “Will you be here in the afternoon?”

How sad it is, she thinks, that they must coordinate their schedules so; gone are the slow, easy days at Mount Vernon, before the war or after, when they’d had all the time in the world to spend together. 

Now, George is drawn in all directions at once, trying to calm the squalling disputes of the Congress and temper the ambitions of the men jockeying to be named to his cabinet. And she herself has hardly a free hour, between holding the house open for receptions, accompanying Betsey on trips to bring food and gifts to the poorhouse, and taking the carriage to a different church each Sunday so that none of the preachers feels slighted or ignored. 

She sets down her brush and turns to face him. “Around then, I should think. Mrs. Marshall is bringing her sister by at four, that I might meet her quickly before we depart for supper.”

“I will make an effort to be back, my dear,” he says, stepping into his boots. “This is the sister from London, the one you spoke of?”

“Yes,” she rises, stepping up onto tiptoe to kiss his cheek. “The very same.”

“Then I shall be most pleased to make her acquaintance, and learn more of how events have unfolded in Europe,” he says decisively, leaning to capture her lips.

They part with a whispered promise of the night to come.

 

***

 

The ladies arrive at the appointed hour, Betsey glowing in blue and Mrs. Church draped in mourning blacks. George greets them briefly and excuses himself to his study with a kiss to Martha’s cheek, allowing her to settle down with them in the parlor.

“Please, call me Angelica. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Lady Washington,” Mrs. Church—taller than her sister, darker, more angular—says. “I must confess that I have envied my sister for her acquaintance with you and the President in these last years, and I shall be glad to infringe upon it,” Angelica finishes, with an easy, self-deprecating smile, and winds her arm through Betsey’s as they sit side-by-side on the sofa.

“Oh, we are hardly worth your envy,” Martha laughs in return. “Our humble attempts at government must be nothing compared to the courts of Europe. Mrs. Marshall says you spent time in Paris?”

“Yes, for two years, though John’s business interests kept him traveling back and forth to London,” she nods. “But I would argue, madam, that nothing in England or the Continent can compare to the great experiment which has commenced here—I would not call it humble.”

“Angelica has always been a revolutionary,” Betsey adds. “Even when we were girls, she would lie to Papa and divert our carriages to the commons for hours to hear the men debate.”

“Do not pretend your own innocence in such adventures, dear sister,” Angelica returns with a smile, not abashed in the least. “We were lucky to live through such a time. And now that I have returned—why, the President’s inauguration shall be the beginning of a new era of peace and prosperity. The courts of Europe are positively medieval by comparison.”

Angelica must mourn her husband, Martha knows—you cannot have five children with a man and be anything less than devastated at his loss. But for all of Betsey’s worries, Angelica appears to have found herself sufficient distraction in world events.  She goes on for several minutes about the political climate in Paris, her face untouched by sadness, and Martha is struck by both her intellect and her unwavering courage to state exactly what she thinks. This one is a survivor.

“You must accompany us to the inauguration, then,” Martha says decisively. “And you have five children, yes? You must bring them along. How do they fare?”

“You are most kind, Lady Washington. I will gladly attend, but as for the children—they are terrors,” Angelica says dryly, shaking her head. “They are exhausted from the journey, and yet they only encourage each other in an utter refusal to sleep or study. It has been so since we landed in Philadelphia, even for my youngest. Alexander and I have dubbed it the Great Rebellion, and we can only hope to survive unscathed. He is minding them now, with only Betsey’s poor maid to help.”

“Alexander?” Martha inquires, thinking nothing of it.

“My husband’s business partner,” Angelica explains. “Alexander Hamilton. He is—indispensable,” she says, the smallest hint of a flush rising in her cheeks. “When John fell ill, and after—well. Alexander has been most kind.”

_ Alexander Hamilton, _ Martha thinks, the sounds echoing in her mind as the rest of the room falls away. In the blink of an eye, she is ten years younger, with the November wind biting at her cheeks and the hunger of war rations gnawing at her belly as she waits desperately for news of George’s fate. But no— _ no.  _ It is impossible, after all. That boy is dead.

“He sounds like a most loyal friend, to undertake such a journey,” she says neutrally, blinking once to recenter herself in the parlor. 

Angelica nods, and Martha doesn’t miss the affection that flickers into her eyes. “Indeed he is.”

“Is it his first time in America? We must show him our greatest hospitality,” Martha continues, casting a quick glance at the sisters’ faces. They betray nothing whatsoever. If it  _ is  _ him— _ no, it couldn’t be, it’s impossible— _ they do not seem to know. 

“Alas, it is not,” Angelica answers. “He was an officer for the King; he is from Glasgow, you see. But you must not hold it against him, Lady Washington. I assure you that his sentiments are in line with those of our new nation, and he…” she pauses for a moment, pursing her lips in thought, “he holds no sympathy for the British crown.”

“No?” Martha struggles to keep her tone even.  _ Glasgow. The boy is dead, but what if-- _

“It is not my story to tell,” Angelica says quietly. “But Alexander….suffered, in the years after the war, until he came to work for my husband. He does not like to speak of the details.”

“Many soldiers find their comfort in such silence,” Martha says faintly, mind whirling. She manages a gentle nod in Angelica’s direction, and offers up a question about the children, pushing the conversation away from Hamilton. 

When the clock slides past five, Martha stands, having barely heard a word of the remaining conversation. “I am afraid I must accompany my husband to sup downtown,” she says, stepping forward to embrace each sister in turn. “You must come by tomorrow, my dears—perhaps around ten? Please feel free to bring any of the children—it would do us good, to have young souls in the house. Our Nelly and Wash have been away for these last few months.”

“You may regret the invitation, madam,” Angelica says ruefully. “But perhaps my youngest will behave for such a trip.”

“And,” Martha adds, as casually as she can, “Bring your Mr. Hamilton, though I would recommend allowing my husband’s identity to be a surprise. It can be difficult for former soldiers to meet their opponents, you see, and I would not wish to make him uncomfortable.”

(In truth, Martha’s motives are far from altruistic; if it  _ is _ Hamilton, if he  _ is _ alive, he will have heard the news about George’s election. And yet he has neither visited nor written nor sent his regards with Angelica. The only explanation can be that he is afraid--and if a frightened animal is given the chance, it will flee.)

Angelica peers at Martha, her dark eyes keen and piercing, as Lettie opens the front door for the sisters to leave.

“Very well,” she acquiesces, though something in her voice tells Martha that she has not believed the excuse for a second. “He will accompany me, and I will not inform him of our destination.”

  
  


*** 

 

It is well-past midnight when Martha is finally, blessedly alone with her husband. George sits down on the bed with a groan, still dressed, having only spared the time to pull off his wig. Years ago, she might have scolded him for letting the grime and dust of the day spill onto the bedsheets. But things have changed; things have mellowed. Things that seemed so important before Patsy and Jacky seem much less so, now.

“George,” she says urgently, casting a glance behind herself to make sure the door is closed. “My darling, I have news.”

“News?” He props himself up, looking at her with surprise and something like concern; he can tell from her tone that it is serious. “Was something said at supper?”

“No, no, not that. All in attendance were most supportive of your inauguration,” she waves a hand in dismissal. “It is—well. It is from before, when Mrs. Church visited.”

“Yes? I found her most capable in conversation, though I confess our interaction was brief,” George starts. 

“Shh. Listen,” Martha interrupts him. “Did she mention who had escorted her here from London? Well, it was her husband’s business partner. A Mr. Hamilton, formerly of Glasgow.”

She puts enough weight on the syllables that George cannot miss her meaning. George’s mouth opens, slowly, but for a long minute all Martha can hear are her own, slow heartbeats and the creaking of the house. 

“What you suggest is impossible,” he says, slow. “That man is long dead.”

“I am not so certain,” she rejoins, stepping forward and reaching for his hand, which finds hers and clings tightly. “She called him Alexander. He’s staying with the family at the Marshalls’ home.”

With her hand on George’s she can both see and feel the moment when it sinks in--the moment when he allows himself to believe the possibilities. His body sways, eyes gone black as night. 

She had not been there when he’d heard the news, all those years ago; she’d been back at Mount Vernon for the summer. But she can still remember their first reunion, that fall, when he’d clung to her for a solid minute before stepping away with a hardened expression on his face. She remembers how he’d changed--snapping at his Generals, growling at Burr, refusing to look her in the eye, and never once,  _ not ever _ , talking about Hamilton. She had not liked that George, whose words had sharpened into weapons. She had not liked him, but he’d won the war.

“I must go, at once,” George manages, making to stand. She stills him with a hand on his knee.

“It is the middle of the night, my dear,” she reminds him softly, knowing that his mind must be spinning in confusion.

“But I—he’s alive?” George says, then, turning to look at her with open astonishment in his face.

“So it would seem. And he will be here tomorrow. I’ve invited him along with Betsey and Mrs. Church, though they do not know the true nature of my interest. We must only sleep, and be patient, and the morning will come.”

“Tomorrow,” George echoes. 

It is only later, when they are lying side by side in the darkness, feet tangled for warmth, that George breathes his doubt against her ear. 

“It could be anyone,” he whispers. “It is a common name, after all.”

Martha twists to face him. “Mrs. Church said he had fought in the war, and lived through a difficult period after.”

“It could be anyone,” George repeats.

She nods against the pillow. “It could be, darling. But we will find out soon enough. Sleep.”

“Burr said he was  _ dead, _ ” George protests, his eyes meeting hers. “I’m sorry, my dear, I wish I could sleep—”

“Hush,” Martha interrupts. She cannot begrudge him her hours of rest, after so long together.  She props herself up on an elbow, instead. Lying horizontally as they are, it is easy to look him in the eyes.

“I did not know Colonel Burr as familiarly as you,” she says, thinking back to the young man in question, with his closed-off face and clipped, obedient tones. “I will defer to your knowledge of the subject, but I must note that there are a number of possibilities to explain the confusion. Burr may have indeed received news from the prison, as you explained to me in your letters. Or perhaps he had his own motives, and chose to mislead you.”

George looks stricken, and for a long moment he makes no reply.

“The latter, I think,” he says finally. “I ordered the men not to harm him, but Burr….Burr was unpredictable. I can’t say what he might have done.”

His face stays twisted in thought, so she lets his words linger for a while.

“Regardless of what happened then, my dear, the fact remains that he is here now,” she says finally. 

He gives a half-nod, still lost in thought, and it is many minutes before he speaks again. She lowers herself back to the mattress, letting her eyes slip closed until the silence is broken.

“I…he was not one of us. I know that. His death…it should not have meant anything,” George whispers, almost to himself, shifting so that his head rests in the crook of her neck and she cannot see his face. “But with Jacky, and Jack Laurens—it was so many of them, so young, and…it did.”

She reaches her free hand down to stroke his cheek. “As I have told you a thousand times, husband, I forbid you from blaming yourself. Jacky’s fever could have happened to anyone. And you know that Mr. Laurens is doing marvelously—his legislation has changed the lives of thousands of former slaves in the South. None of the events of the war, or after, can be construed as your fault.”

(Jack Laurens had taken a bullet to the leg in a foolhardy skirmish a few days after George had called the truce, since news of their victory had not yet trickled to his position in South Carolina. He’d gone on to lose the limb to infection and the surgeon’s saw, and Martha knows George has never forgiven himself. The first thing he’d done when they’d returned to Mount Vernon was send a summons inviting Laurens to spend his convalescence in Virginia. The boy had accepted, traveling as soon as the fevers abated, and remained with them for a full year. Laurens had spent most of it sitting angrily on the settee in George’s office, wrapped in blankets and berating George in decidedly insubordinate tones about his complicity in slavery. He’d even yelled at Martha, once, leading George to toss a full pitcher of water into Laurens’s red, spluttering face and tell him to  _ mind your tongue, son, and come up with a damn solution before you dare to speak to my wife. _ Laurens, shocked into obedience, had swallowed his reaction with a muted nod and set to work. A fortnight later, he’d presented George with an apology and a written proposal for the future of Mount Vernon.)

 

***

 

Martha cannot recall the exact moment in which she falls asleep, George’s hand clasped in hers. By the time she wakes to the faint light of the clouded dawn streaming through the window panes, George’s side of the bed has gone cold. She rises with a shake of her head, knowing that he must already be downstairs pacing. In full dress, like as not; he has never said as much to her, but she knows he clings to the uniform as a measure of protection.

When she descends the stairs for breakfast, she finds him standing by the parlor fireplace, worrying an old tricorn hat between his fingertips.

“Come, now,” she says, taking it gently and setting it upon the mantelpiece. “There are hours yet before our guests arrive, and much to be done.”

She steers him into the dining room, and pushes upon his shoulders to encourage him to sit. From there, the actions come automatically; their housemaids bring in food and tea, and Martha confirms the day’s events with the housekeeper (a necessary meeting, now, as the pace of their engagements has only increased). George sits silent and stone-faced, his eyes focused somewhere far away from the wood-paneled walls. He barely eats.

Martha finally sets her napkin down.

“Go change your clothes and go for a walk, my dear,” she orders, waiting patiently until he reacts to the noise and looks in her direction. “Go,” she repeats. “You may return at quarter to ten, and not before, or I fear you will be quite unsuitable for company.”

He smiles faintly at this, bowing his head in acknowledgment. 

“Have my anxieties rendered me that transparent?”

“Only to your wife, who reminds you that all will be well,” she chides gently.

“I am lucky to have you, my dear,” he responds, standing and coming around the table to press a kiss to her cheek as he departs.

 

***

 

The weather, of course, only worsens.

George reappears at the appointed hour, quite drenched and hardly recognizable between his sodden overcoat and missing wig. Martha bites back a laugh.

“Upstairs, quickly,” she commands, dodging his efforts to embrace her with a wink. “Make yourself presentable, man!”

“I had rather thought I looked dashing in mud,” he quips, but does as he is told, having the grace to look abashed at the footprints he leaves behind.

Martha simply sighs and calls for Lettie to bring in a mop. 

And then, all too soon and too slowly at once, Betsey’s carriage clatters to a halt on the street outside. Martha steps to the window, and only seconds later she feels the warmth of George behind her, sliding his arms around her waist and resting his head atop hers. She can tell by the press of buttons down her back that he’s donned his uniform once more.

Outside, Betsey’s footman swings out of his seat and opens the door, extending a hand. Betsey steps out, followed by her sister, and then, finally, a man in simple breeches and a black coat, his head ducked to talk to the small boy he holds on one hip. Angelica’s youngest, Martha assumes. The child looks haggard, eyes red-rimmed; Angelica will have been telling the truth about his exhaustion, then. 

The man bends, his mouth moving as he tickles the child lightly on the belly and sets him down on the cobblestones, careful to avoid the morning’s puddles. One tiny hand stays wrapped solidly around the man’s.  

Then the man straightens and looks up, stepping forward to follow Betsey and Angelica onto the sidewalk and up to the wide granite stoop.

It’s Hamilton.

Martha feels George stiffen, behind her. She turns; his eyes are blown wide with shock. 

“It’s him,” George whispers, as if to confirm. In the foyer, Lettie is opening the door to welcome their guests. 

“Yes,” Martha answers. “Now, smile and make ready, Mr. President. You have visitors.”

“Not President yet,” he answers reflexively; it’s enough to break him out of his stunned silence, as she’d known it would be.

“Mrs. Marshall and Mrs. Church to see you, ma’am,” Lettie announces with a knock, pausing before she continues. “With a Mr. Hamilton.”

“Send them in,” Martha calls. She steps away from the window and smooths her skirt, before reaching one hand back to clasp George’s.

Betsey and Angelica are first to enter, and in the flurry of their embraces Martha almost misses how Hamilton stands frozen in the doorway, his eyes locked on George. 

The women disengage and turn back to Hamilton, both too smart by far to miss the sudden tension in the room. The sisters exchange a glance; Angelica raises a single brow, though she looks unsurprised.

“Come to Mama, Hammie,” Angelica says, breaking the silence and reaching out her arms. Martha only has a split second to blink in confusion before the small boy disengages from Hamilton’s grip and trots obediently over to his mother, who swings him up into her arms.

“I believe, Lady Washington,” she continues, sending Martha a wry look. “That Alexander may have already made your and your husband’s acquaintance.”

At this, Hamilton drags his gaze over to Angelica and Martha in turn, his eyes wide and a flush rising in his cheeks. “Angelica, you didn’t tell me that it was—”

“Son—” George begins, at the exact same instant.

Hamilton jerks back to facing George, his face full-on red, now.

“No, I didn’t,” Angelica says primly. “And if I  _ had _ more thoroughly explained the identities of our gracious hosts?” she asks, ruffling her son’s hair and sending Hamilton a challenging glance.

Hamilton’s mouth opens and closes without emitting a single word.

“I thought as much,” Angelica says, turning. “Lady Washington, Betsey, might I suggest we adjourn to the sitting room? As Alexander and His Excellency already know each other, I would not wish for our presence to preclude their  _ polite  _ and  _ respectful  _ conversation.” She throws a stern glance at Hamilton at the adjectives; Hamilton winces. 

_ They are  _ quite  _ familiar,  _ Martha thinks, and, watching their faces— _ oh.  _ She spares only a moment to smile to herself.  _ All right, then. _

“A splendid idea,” Martha says smoothly, “But first—”

She strides forward, not leaving a moment for Hamilton to protest, and wraps her arms around him—still thin, but more well-built, now, a proper man instead of a lad forced to grow up too soon. His body goes still and stiff under her touch, from fear or shock or both, but she ignores it, releasing him and putting her hands gently upon his cheeks.

His eyes, when they meet hers, are terrified. She hadn’t known what she was going to say, but she realizes the necessary words in an instant.

“I know what you did, all those years ago,” she says quietly. “George told me.”

He swallows, his whole face twitching under her touch, and his eyes drop to the floor. When she opens her mouth to continue, he flinches; expecting condemnation, she thinks. Expecting horror.

“I forgive you,” Martha finishes, patting his cheek gently and stepping away. She turns, tucks her arm into Betsey’s, and leaves.

 

***

  
  
  
  
  



	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it! I can hardly believe it. Thank you all for reading, leaving feedback, reaching out on tumblr, and generally going along on this AU adventure with me! Thanks most of all to [herowndeliverance](http://archiveofourown.org/users/atheilen), who it should be noted left the first ever comment on this story and then morphed into the best beta reader, plot developer, and editor that I could have asked for!

**Chapter 20**

 

The ladies leave— _ traitor _ , Alexander thinks sourly, and if he were alone he’d be glaring daggers at Angelica’s retreating back.

But he is not alone; nor can he be truly angry. He and Angelica know each other far too well for that. If she had gone along with this, she would have thought it— _ known it _ —to be in his best interests.

Palms suddenly sweating, Alexander straightens. He looks around, taking in the fireplace, the chairs, the settee, the windowpanes. Finally, when the silence has stretched thin, he looks toward the other man in the room.

The General is old; his face is lined, and his brows have started to go gray. And yet he wears his full uniform, standing tall as ever and towering over Alexander himself, whose clothes are humble in comparison.

It is as if nothing has changed at all.

Alexander swallows and draws in his breath. He knows he has to look up; has to meet Washington’s eyes. He owes him that much, even after all this time. But knowing does not make the movement any easier. He exhales, digs his fingernails into one palm, and forces his gaze upwards.

Washington’s eyes are dark; his expression unreadable. 

The silence lingers; Alexander falters. Even  _ after, _ after that singular moment when the bullet had ripped into his side—he’d thought ( _ assumed _ ) that Washington had been sincere. That Washington hadn’t intended for the rest of it—the weeks of blinding pain, the burn of infection, the stench of his own body being consumed by rot—to happen. Burr had simply made good on his threat, after all. Alexander had assumed that Washington didn’t know.

Washington had promised that he would be unharmed, after all, and until the moment Burr’s bullet met its mark, he had never given Alexander a reason to doubt his word. 

But now—even if Mrs. Washington has forgiven him, perhaps the General’s own feelings have shifted. Perhaps Alexander was wrong all along, and Washington had sent Burr inside that day. Alexander steels his jaw and meets Washington’s gaze straight on, until finally, he speaks.

“I apologize for before,” Washington says slowly. “I did not mean to refer to you so familiarly, Colonel.”

Alexander pauses, confused, until he remembers.  _ Son.  _ It hardly seems to matter, though, not when the other appellation is ringing in his ears.  _ Colonel.  _

He hadn’t heard the word intoned with respect since the war, and the very wrongness of it burrows into his gut. In prison, of course, he’d been stripped of his rank. After, during the miserable years in London and Windsor before he’d met the Churches, it had been turned into poison and used as an instrument of his penance. Officers and courtiers alike had sneered it in the hallways as he’d passed.

“Mister,” Alexander corrects, against the uncomfortable shifting in his stomach. “Just—Mr. Hamilton. Or Alexander.”

It slips out quickly, thoughtlessly, and for a long, paralyzing second he flushes and cannot think of why he said it. Why he offered so easily that which a decade ago would have been unthinkably personal.

“Perhaps in time, Mr. Hamilton,” Washington says, mercifully. “May I offer you a seat? A drink?”

“Thank you,” Alexander says, for lack of any other response. Washington turns, pours, hands him a glass of whiskey and gestures for him to sit. Alexander sinks unsteadily down into the offered chair, which faces Washington’s.

Alexander sips, willing himself to relax. He’d thought of this moment a thousand times, of course. In those years of hell, he’d thought of hardly anything but his own transgressions and how he must atone. He’d imagined what to say to Washington; to Burr. He’d imagined that the guilt and shame would lift from his chest, leaving him finally, finally a free man.

Now that the moment has come, though, words seem impossible.

“I am sorry, Your Excellency,” he manages, looking at the floor instead of Washington’s face.  _ Hope,  _ his mind supplies.  _ That expression—he looks hopeful.  _ “I find myself quite unprepared. Angelica said we were only going to visit one of Betsey’s friends, sir.”

“Ah,” Washington says, nodding in Alexander’s peripheral vision. “I’m afraid that was my wife’s doing. We were not sure if you would agree to see me. You understand.”

Alexander nods in response, reaching for his glass.

“I…with your permission, I would…appreciate a chance to talk,” Washington continues, something hesitant in his voice that wasn’t there before. “You are, of course, free to go,” he adds hastily. 

The alternative lingers in the air between them. Alexander’s ankle twinges, the bones remembering that long-ago chain.

“Thank you, Your Excellency,” he says, pushing the memories away. “I would…I would be glad to stay.”

Washington smiles, the movement enough to encourage Alexander to look up.

“Thank  _ you _ , Mr. Hamilton,” he says, tone serious even though a lightness in his face shows he’s pleased. “As I am partially to blame for surprising you thus, I should wish to ask your indulgence. I would speak first, if you will listen.”

“I will,” Alexander says faintly. 

Washington inclines his head, eyes never leaving Alexander’s. Outside, the rain has picked up; it beats down upon the windowpanes. A trace of unease prickles down Alexander’s spine.

“Yesterday,” Washington starts, “when Martha told me that you had traveled here with Mrs. Church, I was…well. I thought you were dead. Burr told me you had succumbed to fever in the prison camp. For all these years, I thought…”

He trails off, reaching for another sip of whiskey.

“I hope you will not take offense at my presumption,” Washington continues, at length, “but I was most pleased to hear of your well-being, and even more so to see you in the flesh. I am glad to know that you are—are you happy?”

He does look hopeful, then; it shines across the lines of age on his face, naked and honest. Something rises in Alexander’s throat.

“I am,” Alexander answers, with difficulty. It is the truth—as hard as the first years after the war had been, his life since meeting John and Angelica three years ago has been fulfilling and peaceful. It was punctuated by grief, of course--John's death, at the time, had seemed insurmountable. But at least there had been time to say goodbye; time for John to pull Alexander close, disregarding the rules of his sickroom, and intone with feverish intensity that Alexander must do everything and anything in his power to make Angelica happy.

“Then that is all a man could wish for,” Washington answers, looking relieved. 

Just then, a wail rises from the adjoining room. Hammie. Alexander winces; it’s not been two hours since his last tantrum. He almost stands, fingers drumming on the arm of his chair. But Hammie will quiet soon enough, and Angelica will not appreciate the interruption, not after she’d gone to such lengths to put him and General Washington in a room together.

“Sorry, sorry,” Alexander says reflexively, as Hammie’s screams die down to a fuss. “He’s just tired. It’s been a difficult few months.”

“My wife explained about Mr. Church,” Washington answers softly. “I am sorry for your loss.”

Alexander swallows with a nod, and for a long few minutes he knows not what to say. He could talk about John, of course, or the children, and Washington would be graciously interested. But that is not what Washington truly wishes to hear.

The words are still stuck in his throat, try as he might to release them. He inhales; exhales; drinks from his whiskey to soothe his shattered nerves. 

And then, abruptly, the rain outside stops. Its loss resonates deeply into the silence of the room, and a thin streak of pale sunshine inches its way onto the floorboards. Alexander breathes in and out, once more, and just like that, he can no longer remember why he had been afraid. There is no threat, here; no chains, no guns; no one to stop him from falling into his bed tonight, only one wall away from Angelica’s.

This is a new world; he is a new man.

The words spill freely.

“After you left to arrange the prison transport, Colonel Burr came upstairs,” Alexander says; his shoulders ease back into the chair. It’s suddenly easy to meet Washington’s eyes. “He was understandably displeased with my comportment, and shot me.”  

Washington shrinks back in horror. “He  _ what, _ ” he says, hard as ice.

“It’s all right,” Alexander shakes a hand in dismissal. “Let us be honest, sir; you know that I deserved it.”

“You didn’t,” Washington objects.

“We can have a debate about the proper consequences of attempted murder later, sir. At any rate, he took his shot.” Alexander’s hand finds his side, tracing the mottled path of his scar. “I do not begrudge him for it. Not any more, at least.”

He pauses for a sip of whiskey; Washington barely moves.

“I don’t remember much, after that. I did fall to a fever in the camp, and my wound became infected. I came back to myself in September, though I was still too weak to move. It helped, in a way. I was spared the prison ships or hard labor; the prison doctor simply set me to work in his tent, sewing bandages and the like. I’m not sure whether he knew of my crimes and forgave them, or believed I was no different than the other men.” Alexander shakes his head, remembering. “I owe him a great debt, either way.”

“And you…returned to Britain?”

Alexander nods. “When the war ended, they marched the lot of us to Manhattan, handed us over. We sailed the next morning, dodging the ice floes in the harbor. It was...miserable.”

(It had been worse than miserable, in fact. Not even an hour after the ship had pulled away from the dock, the general in charge had come striding through the men’s quarters, a thunderous expression on his face, and hadn’t stopped until he’d found Alexander.  _ Lock him up, _ he had snarled.  _ This one’s a traitor.) _

Alexander swallows the memory away, looking down and barely managing to keep from rubbing at the scars on his wrists.

“May I be so bold as to ask,” Washington says next, after a pause, but whatever his question was meant to be, it is swallowed up in the commotion of a small body hurtling through the door and flinging itself at Alexander’s knees.

“Papa,” Hammie cries, tear-streaks run red down his cheeks. “I want to go  _ home! _ ”

Alexander’s no fool; he can see Washington’s eyebrows lift at Hammie’s address. He looks away, flushing, and picks Hammie up to settle in his lap.

“Home is a very long way across the sea, darling. You remember the ship, and how green and ill you were? It’s much better to stay here in Auntie Betsey’s lovely house, with the big garden and the stables. You wouldn’t want to leave all the horses behind, would you?” Alexander murmurs, repeating a conversation they’ve had at least a dozen times by this point. Hammie pops his thumb in his mouth and shakes his head, but he’s still sulking and not at all convinced.

Alexander stands, setting Hammie down gently before he can have the chance to shriek again. He looks to Washington, who has followed suit. “Mayhaps we’d better join the ladies, sir, for the sake of our eardrums.”

“Of course,” Washington nods. “I don’t believe you have seen the dining room yet, Mr. Hamilton. Perhaps the little fellow could lead the way?”

Hammie, startled by the notice, nods with a dropped jaw. Alexander sets him down, and with one glance back at Washington, Hammie is off, trotting back down the hallway. Alexander follows, but thinks better of it after a moment and pauses in the doorway. He turns to Washington, who is a few steps behind.

“I…for Mrs. Church’s sake, sir, I wish to only make clear that however much I love the children, so too did I respect their father,” he says. “I would not want you to have the wrong impression. Hammie is not mine.”

“Not yours  _ by blood, _ ” Washington corrects with a nod. “There are many ways to become a father, as I well know. You, and the lady’s reputation, have nothing to fear from me.”

Alexander nods a thank you around the tangle that has caught in his throat. At the other end of the hallway, light has broken through the window; it casts a halo on Hammie’s hair as he reaches up for the doorknob. 

“Come, then,” Washington continues, into Alexander’s silence. He steps forward, guiding Alexander with a light touch to the elbow. “I wish to meet Mrs. Church properly, and we have much more to discuss besides. I understand that you and Mr. Church were bankers?”

“Yes, sir,” Alexander replies easily. “To be honest, our business was a combination of multiple ventures. Shipping, banking, speculation—all above board, I assure you, no matter what John’s prior reputation may have been. We dealt primarily with France, though we hoped to expand into other foreign markets for trade. Of late, we have been in discussions with the Chevalier de la Luzerne—you will know him, I believe, as he was previously stationed in Philadelphia. At any rate, we had established a shipping company and were active on the stock exchange. John had even intended to run for the House of Commons, if he had not fallen ill. I myself studied law, and took responsibility for both our accounting and our legal matters.”

Alexander stops to breathe, realizing abruptly that he’s been unspeakably rude and continued talking all the way into the dining room, where Angelica is now regarding him with amusement.

“My apologies, sir, madam,” he says hastily, bowing in Mrs. Washington’s direction. “I did not mean to allow myself to get so carried away.”

“It is quite all right,” Washington says simply, taking the seat at the head of the table and gesturing for Alexander to sit at his right, next to Angelica. “I find myself thinking more and more about finances and foreign trade in recent months. In fact, perhaps you and Mrs. Church,” Washington says, inclining his head to her, “could offer some insight into the problem which now grips our young nation. Some advice, if you will--I would value your opinion. For, you see, it has become quite the intractable problem among members of my cabinet...”

Washington continues, but the rest of his words are lost to Alexander. He can feel Washington’s eyes on him, eager to see his reaction and hear his response. He can tell, distantly, that Washington has moved into a smooth explanation of the States’ burgeoning debt. But Alexander hears not a word; something else is rising in his ears. 

It’s the sound of waves, crashing against the shore after months at sea. It’s the quiet beat of his bare feet against the footpath leading up the side of the cliffs to the Grange, on the cold, crisp day when his journey north from prison had finally come to a close. It’s the rustle of palm fronds in an autumn breeze, when the worst of the summer humidity has broken. 

Alexander can barely breathe, and yet the air in his lungs rises and dances and spins thousands of words into being.

He hadn’t known that he’d been longing for this moment, that he’d been waiting for it, but it rushes into his veins and up his spine and sinks surety into the very fabric of his soul.

“…And so it must be assumed on a national level, of course,” Angelica says with finality, just as Alexander is pulled back into himself, exhaling with barely a catch to his breath. He can tell from Washington’s pensive expression that whatever argument she had presented had been a good one, for all that Alexander heard not a single word.

“Well stated,” Mrs. Washington comments, exchanging a glance with Betsey.

“Indeed. And what say you, Mr. Hamilton? Do you agree?” Washington asks, looking curiously to Alexander.

“I do,” Alexander says. He feels the smile settle across his face, meets Washington’s eyes, and starts to talk.

 

***

 

Later, after teatime and luncheon have passed and Hammie has spent nearly two hours fast asleep on the Washington’s settee, the party moves into the foyer to depart. Angelica and Betsey leave first, a drowsy Hammie tucked against his mother’s shoulder as they make their quiet goodbyes.

Alexander’s tongue is dry; his brain is exhausted after hours of discussion of finance, the formation of the new country’s judicial system, and the need for a solid and independent press. But still he finds himself hesitating, even though by rights he ought to escort the women down to the curb and into the carriage.

“It was wonderful to see you again, my dear boy,” Mrs. Washington says, pressing a kiss to Alexander’s cheek and departing with a meaningful look to her husband before Alexander has a chance to respond.

Alexander faces the man himself, now silhouetted against the parlor door by the late afternoon light. Washington looks more noble than ever; deified by the Presidency or the sunshine glinting off the polished floorboards. 

Washington opens his mouth to speak, but Alexander, suddenly struck, breaks into the silence.

“I meant to tell you, before,” he says. “You were right. About—well, not everything, but you were right about me. About my uncle. I…when I was released from prison, in eighty-three, I went back to Stevenston. I wouldn’t have, and I almost didn’t—but I remembered what you said.”

He blinks against the memory.

“He was old, by then, and the house was overrun with my cousins, but when I arrived, he…” Alexander swallows. “I had never felt welcome there, not really, until that day. I walked up and he saw me and without even saying a word, he…he pulled me in, told me how sorry he was, and said that I was home. So you were right, sir, and I…find myself at quite a loss for the appropriate words to express my gratitude.”

“I am glad,” Washington says, simple and quiet, and he reaches out to grasp Alexander’s shoulder with a light squeeze. He doesn’t let go.

“If it is not too much trouble, I wondered if you might return here on the morrow,” Washington asks, his dark eyes locking onto Alexander’s. “I found your counsel on our financial situation most enlightening, and I should like the opportunity to continue such conversation. There is much to be done, in this new country…” Washington continues; he pauses, minutely, gazing at Alexander. A gentle smile plays at the corner of his mouth before he finishes the sentence. “…of ours.”

It vibrates in the air between them, like a long, deep note on a violoncello, the first hopeful tone of an unfolding prelude.

“Of course,” Alexander says in a rush, feeling a matching smile creep across his features. He can do nothing to mask it, and does not think to try. “It would be my honor.”

 

 

 

 

 

_ Fin _

**Author's Note:**

> That's all, folks. Thank you so much for reading, commenting, and putting up with all my cliffhangers. Come chat on [ tumblr ](http://talriconosco.tumblr.com/) if you want! I love talking about this universe.
> 
> Story art [here](http://talriconosco.tumblr.com/post/150643179495/whats-your-name-man) and [here](http://talriconosco.tumblr.com/post/144283982790/appellation-look-john-hamilton-loves-his)!
> 
>    
> I pulled the title from George Washington's farewell address:  
>  _“Citizens by birth or choice of a common country, that country has a right to concentrate your affections. The name of American, which belongs to you, in your national capacity, must always exalt the just pride of Patriotism, more than any appellation derived from local discriminations.”_


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